by Janette Oke
Marty picked up her list and glanced over it to see what she might have ordered that Clark had read as lard.
"No," he answered evenly, "ya didn't have lard on the list."
"Then why--?" Marty left the question hanging. Clark looked a mite sheepish.
"They're red, ain't they--an' shiny--an' they have a handle--an' white letters?"
It finally dawned. Missie's pail. Red and shiny with white letters--LARD.
Marty nodded.
"Now, I ain't sayin' thet Missie should have thet jest cause she asked fer it." Clark hurried on. "No reason fer her to be thinkin' thet she'll always git what she's a wantin' jest by askin', but iffen ya think thet it won't hurt none, fer her to have it--like this once, then it'll be there. An'--well, I could hardly git her one an' not the other two--now could I?"
"No, I s'pose not."
92
Clark turned to leave the kitchen.
"Ya can decide," he said again.
Marty turned back to the three red, shiny pails. Three pails of lard, and she already with more lard than they could use, and another fall butchering coming up soon. What would she ever do with it all?
"Ya ole softy," she murmured, but she was forced to swallow hard, and the thought of the happy faces and Missie's glowing eyes when she passed them their lunches on Monday morning made it difficult to wait.
The chores had been done and the Saturday night bath- water put on the stove to heat in the big copper boiler, when the family gathered around for the evening meal.
"I thought thet iffen somethin' happens to Ole Bob, it'll make it less painful-like iffen they have a new pup to fill their minds," Clark confided in Marty as she dished up the potatoes. She nodded.
Clark moved on to the table and saw to the seating of his family.
"Know what, Ma?" said Clare. "I stopped to see the puppy an' it's all curled up sleepin' with Ole Bob. Does Ole Bob think he's the puppy's mama?"
Marty smiled. "No, I doubt Ole Bob be thet dumb, but as long as the puppy doesn't torment 'im too much a chewin' an' a chasin', Ole Bob'll be content to let 'im share his bed."
"He's so cute," said Missie. "I wish I could share my bed."
"Oh, no," said Marty firmly. "Animals belong outside, not in."
Thinking of Miss Puss, who did sneak in and share her bed, Missie did not belabor the point.
"Well," said Clark, "thought ya of any good names yet?" "I think we should call 'im Cougar," said Clare. "Cougar, fer a dog?" Missie was unimpressed.
"Thet's the color he is," argued Clare.
"I like King or Prince, or somethin' like thet," said Missie. "Fer a little puppy?" Clare was just as incredulous. "He'll grow," Missie said defiantly.
93
"What about you, Sport?" Clark asked Arnie. Arnie pushed in a big spoonful of potatoes and gravy with the help of his free hand. He shifted them around, swallowed some and then answered.
"Ole Bob."
"But what ya want to call the new puppy?"
"Ole Bob."
"But Ole Bob be the name of--Ole Bob," Clark finished lamely.
"I know," said Arnie. "I like it."
"Ya want Ole Bob an' Ole Bob?" asked Clare, thinking that only he was really capable of understanding and interpreting the young Arnie.
"Yeah," said Arnie shaking his head. "Now we got--" two rather potatoey fingers struggled to stand upright with the rest remaining tucked in. "Now we got two Ole Bobs."
The others all laughed, but it was finally agreed that the new puppy would carry the name of Ole Bob as well.
"He'll grow," said Missie.
"Yeah, an' he'll git old someday too," said Clare. " 'Sides when we call 'em, we'll jest hafta say one name an' they'll both come."
Clark smiled, "Save ourselves a heap of time and trouble thet way, won't we?"
Arnie grinned. "Now we got a little Ole Bob, an' a big Ole Bob."
As it happened, big Ole Bob did not stay with them for long. As Clark had hoped, the loss of the old dog was much easier for the children to accept with the growing young pup running and nipping at their heels.
94
Chapter 19
Tommie's Friend
The school year passed by quickly, and before it seemed possible it was time for the summer break. Some of the older boys left school early in order to help with the spring planting. Others carried on until the month of June. Missie ended her year by bringing home bouquets of flowers or red ripe strawberries in the red pail that had, over the winter months, lost a little of its shine.
Summer passed as quickly as it came--before, it seemed, they had time to enjoy it to its fullest.
Then it was fall again with the flurry of school preparations. Clare was still a year short of school age and again grumbled about being kept at home.
Clae and Missie were anxious to return. Clae had spent the summer poring over books that Mr. Whittle had supplied and was closing the gap between where she was and where she should have been with surprising speed. Mr. Whittle was pleased.
Missie, too, was a promising pupil and looked forward to school with much anticipation.
Only Nandry balked. At first she seemed just unenthused, but as the day for school opening drew nearer she finally dared voice her position.
"I'm not goin' back," she declared with finality, "--not with all those little kids."
95
She was so determined about it that Clark and Marty discussed it and decided that as much as they hated to do so, they would allow her to drop out.
"We'll jest have to concentrate on the homemaking an' the baby carin'," said Marty. "Nandry has the makin's of a good wife an' mother. Maybe thet's plenty. An' at least now she can read and write some."
Clark nodded his head. At fifteen Nandry seemed quite capable of caring for a home. Some area young man was bound to welcome her as a helpmate.
So school started again. It was easier this time. Easier to watch Missie go. Easier to put up with the two boys at home, because Nandry was there.
Marty welcomed Nandry's help more than she could express, for in two short months her family would increase again. Nandry, with few words, assumed a great deal of the youngsters' care, taking them with her to feed the chickens, putting Arnie down for his naps--Clare having declared himself too big for such nonsense--and in general assisting with the household duties. Marty greatly appreciated her helpful hands and often told her so.
Then one day as Marty sat in the coolness of the cabin, darning socks, she was surprised by an approaching horse. Much to her delight, it was Tommie.
"Tommie," she said, "do come in. We haven't seen ya over our way fer jest ages."
Nandry looked up from where she was rolling pie crust dough, flushed, then looked quickly down again. Clare chose this moment of her unguardedness to help himself to a piece of dough.
"How're yer folks?"
"Fine, we all are fine. Thet little Lizzie be growin' like a weed."
"Isn't she a sweetie," Marty said, remembering the last time she had seen little Elizabeth Anne, who was at that time Practicing her new learned skill of walking. The tottering steps were awarded with praise, hugs and kisses by doting grandparents and young aunts and uncles.
96
Marty also recalled that at the same time Rett Marshall was still unable to sit properly alone. A heaviness passed through her and she turned her attention back to Tommie.
"I hear thet ya got yer own land."
"Yep," he said proudly. "Even got a small cabin on it. Not very big, but it should make do fer a while."
"Farmed it yet?"
"Nope. I take over come spring."
A small suspicion raised itself with Marty. Could young Tom be showing interest in her Nandry? Her thoughts were interrupted by Tom's voice.
"Mind taking a little turn outside? It be a first-rate day an' kind of a shame to waste it."
Marty reached for her light shawl.
"Be glad to," she said, "been wantin' to take a little look a
t the spring afore freeze-up."
She led the way out. At first the conversation was only small talk. They reached the spring and Tom sat down on the cool grass, his back against a tree trunk. Marty watched him. It was clear that something was bothering the boy. Still Tom said nothing. She watched him pick up a piece of bark and break it with his fingers.
"It be a girl, huh?"
He looked up quickly.
"How'd ya know?" he asked.
"It shows," Marty smiled.
"Yeah, guess maybe it does."
He waited a moment then hurried on.
"She's wonderful, Marty--really wonderful. I--I had to talk to someone. Ma wouldn't understand--I know she wouldn't."
Marty was taken aback. What kind of girl wouldn't Ma understand about?
"Maybe yer selling yer ma short?"
"No, I don't think so. Iffen she'd give herself a chance to git to know her--then she'd understand. But, I'm afraid at first--thet's why I came to you, Marty. Ya know Ma. Could ya--could ya talk to her like an'--?"
97
"Is the girl from around here?"
"Not really. She's--she's from back in the hills. She lives there with her grandfather."
"An' her name?"
"It's Owahteeka."
"O-wah-tee-ka--why, thet sounds like an--" Marty had started her sentence with laughter, but she broke off in shock as the truth grabbed hold of her. Her face went white and she finished lamely.
"She's--Indian."
Tom just nodded.
"Oh, Tommie," Marty said. She wanted to add, "How could you?" but the words wouldn't come, and looking at the anguished face of the young boy, she could say nothing.
She walked away a few steps trying to get things to fall in perspective, but somehow nothing seemed to fit in its proper place.
"Oh, God," she prayed, "please help us work this out." When she felt that she had herself under control, she returned to Tom, only now she felt the necessity of sitting down.
She chose a stump near him and lowered herself to it. "Okay," she said, "tell me about her."
Tom took a deep breath.
"I met her last fall," he said. "The first time I saw her I was out looking fer a couple of stray cows. They had crawled the fence and gone off into the hill country, an' I went after 'em on horseback. I din't find 'em thet day, but on my way home I found this here saskatoon patch, great big, juicy ones, an' I stopped an' et. An' then I decided to take some to Ma fer a pie, so I took off my hat an' started fillin' it with berries.
"While I was pickin' I could feel eyes lookin' at me, an' I looked up, half expectin' to see a black bear or a cougar, an' there stood this girl--her eyes and her hair were black as a crow's back. She was dressed in buckskin with beads, but what really hit me, she was laughin' at me. Oh, she was tryin' not to, but she was all the same. Her eyes jest--jest lit up like, an' she hid her mouth behind her hand.
"When I asked her what was so funny, she said thet she'd
98
never seen a brave picking berries like a squaw afore. Thet made me kinda mad, an' I told her thet maybe her braves weren't smart enough to know how good a saskatoon pie tasted.
"She stopped laughin' an' I cooled off some. We talked a bit. She told me her name, `Owahteeka,' meaning Little Flower. Either way, it sounded pretty.
"We met agin--many times. In the winter months I used to leave her venison or other game. She lives alone with her elderly grandfather. He couldn't stand the reserve so moved back alone to the hills. Owahteeka jest shakes her head when I ask if I can go to her home to meet 'im. He's old--very old. Actually, he is her great-grandfather, an' when he is gone, she won't have no family. She says thet she will go back to the reserve--thet someone will take her in, or thet some brave will make her his wife. But I don't want thet."
He looked directly at Marty now.
"Marty, I want to marry her. I love her. I--" he groaned. "How am I gonna tell Pa and Ma?"
Marty shook her head. Poor Tommie. He who deserved the best girl in the whole west, in love with an Indian.
Marty stood up and pulled her shawl tightly about her, for suddenly the sun didn't seem to be shining as brightly as it had been.
"Oh, Tommie!" she said, shaking her head. "I don't know--I jest don't know."
Tommie, too, got to his feet.
"But ya'll talk to 'em? You'll try--won't ya, Marty?"
"I'll try," she promised. "But Tommie, ya know--ya know it's not gonna be easy--not fer yer folks--not fer enyone."
"I know," he swallowed hard. "I know, but I've thought it all out. I've got my own land, my own cabin. It isn't much, but she's lived the winter in a tent of skins. A cabin should seem good after thet. We won't have to mix much with folks. Our land is sort of off by itself like. We won't bother no one. She'll be close to the hill country--she loves the hills."
"Yer not thinkin' ahead, Tommie," Marty interrupted him. "Yer not thinkin' straight. Babies--family--what about
99
them? Ya can't jest hide 'em in the bush."
Tommie's face darkened.
"Thet's the only answer I don't have," he said. "The only one; but--we'll--we'll work thet out when the time comes." Marty shook her head.
"Please, Marty," Tom begged; "Please try to talk to Ma. Iffen Ma can see it, she'll convince Pa. Please--"
Marty sighed. "I'll try," she promised, but tears filled her eyes. "I'll honestly try, but I'm not sure how good I'll be at it."
Tommie stepped forward and gave her an impulsive hug.
"Thanks, Marty," he whispered. "Thet's all I ask. An'-- an'--someday I'll take ya with me to meet Owahteeka. When you see her, you'll know why--why I feel like I do. Now I gotta run."
He turned to go.
"God, bless Tommie," Marty whispered. She wanted to cover her face and cry.
100
Chapter 20
Search for a Preacher
The fall work had been completed, and the farmers' attention could now be turned to other things. A meeting of the community adults was called for on a Saturday afternoon in early October. All residents were invited to attend and very few refused the invitation.
Zeke LaHaye had sent word that though he felt that the meeting was a worthwhile one, he was hard put to keep up with his farm work and just couldn't spare the time.
The neighbors had already discovered that Zeke LaHaye could spare no time from his farming duties--not to honor the Lord's Day, not to help a neighbor, not for any reasons. Clark, who rarely made comment on a neighbor's conduct, confided to Marty: "Thet poor farm sure must be confused-like--first owner contents hisself to let everythin' stay at rest; next owner nigh drives everythin' to death. Makes me stop short-like an' look within. I hope thet I never git so land hungry and money crazy thet I have no time fer God, family, or friends."
Marty silently agreed.
They gathered at the schoolhouse on the predetermined Saturday. Ben Graham was to chair the meeting. When the noise of visiting subsided somewhat, he rose to his feet.
"Friends and neighbors," he began, "I'm sure thet ya all know why this meeting has been called. Fer some time now
101
our area has been without a parson. Twice a year we have the good fortune of having a visiting preacher pass through our neighborhood an' stop long enough to preach us a sermon and marry our young men and women.
"We of the area are concerned thet this ain't enough to give our young'uns the proper-like trainin' in the ways of the Lord.
"A few of us met a while back and talked it over, an' we feel thet it be time to take some action.
"We has us a schoolhouse now. This here fine buildin' is a tribute to what we can do when we work together.
"Now's the time fer us to go to work together agin."
Some people began to applaud and others cheered. It flustered Ben somewhat, but he soon recovered, cleared his throat and went on.
"What we need to do at this point is to choose us two or three men to form a comm
ittee to look into the gittin' of a preacher. One thet will stay right here fer regular-like services, fer the buryin' an' the marryin' enytime of the year."
Again people applauded. Ben looked to Ma for support. He must have felt it, for he raised his hand for silence, and then went on.
"We're gonna take names now as to who ya would like. The committee can be two men--or three, iffen ya like. Enymore then thet makes it a bit cumbersome."
A man near the back stood and named Clark Davis. Marty heard several "ayes" for the nominee.
Todd Stern named Ben Graham, and again people voiced approval and heads nodded.
Mr. Coffins then stood and in a loud voice named Mr. Wilbur Whittle. Silence followed. No one in the room knew of what religious bent Mr. Whittle might be. Feet shuffled, throats cleared.
Ben stepped forward.
"Ya all have heard Mr. Coffin's choice. Mr. Whittle, are ya willin' to let yer name stand to help in the selectin' of a new preacher?"
Mr. Whittle rose grandly.
102
"I believe that I have many connections in the East that could indeed be of great assistance to the men on the committee," he said in his carefully modulated voice.
"An' yer willin' to serve?" asked Ben.
"Certainly, certainly," agreed Mr. Whittle. "I believe that a resident minister will be a great asset in our community." "Thank ya, Mr. Whittle."
"Ya all have heard the three names given: Clark Davis, myself, and Mr. Whittle. What is yer pleasure?"
"So let it be," came a loud voice.
"We will vote," declared Ben; "those in favor aye, those agin, nay." There were no nays.
After the meeting Mr. Whittle sought out Clark and Ben.
"Now, gentlemen," he said, "I am personally acquainted with many seminarians whom I have no doubt could fill our need quite adequately. Do you wish me to act as correspondent on behalf of the committee?"
Ben frowned, but Clark answered.