“So, that was what Mr. Hoskins meant by ‘the rest of the Parsons hay’!” Thoroughly aroused now, Sayre plunged into the message that had brought her to the spot.
To her amazement it acted upon Charley like a charge of revivifying electricity. Fishing through his pockets for a pencil stub and a scrap of paper, he figured rapidly for a moment in the fading light; then jumped to his feet.
“We can do it yet,” he exulted, lifting one end of the bale on which he had been sitting. “Get every darn stem of Hoskins hay off this eighty tonight. Come on, Nels. You can stay, can’t you, if you send young Nels home to do the chores after we finish this truck?” He tossed up the bale to young Nels, who moved into life again from where he had been lounging on the load. Charley stooped to another of the 70-80-pound bales, into which practically all the alfalfa hay of that region was sent to market, planning aloud all the while. “Sayre’ll do our chores. Then she’ll make us some sandwiches we can eat on our way into town. I’ll take her in with us when we go, on the ‘Shake, so she can drive that back while I bring the Hoskins truck. We’ll make town with your truck and the ‘Shake by the time that freight car’s switched up, or soon after. We’ll pick up a third man around the station to help hurry up the loading it. But,” Charley hesitated, “there’s reloading here when we get back. We’ll have to make that snappy. And with only two of us—”
“There’s me.” All Sayre’s fatigue was submerged in eagerness. She wanted action now to quell the consternation tingling through her, unvoiced, “No hay. No hay of our own. No hay at all. We’ve stock to feed. No money to buy hay with. What are we going to do?” Work that demanded the postponing of thinking out an answer was welcome. She was too tired tonight for her mind to face squarely the shock of this new blow.
Charley, meanwhile, was shaking his head. “Too hard. Still—” His decision wavered. “Could we manage it, Nels, do you think, with a little help from her?”
“I t’ank so.”
Charley lifted another bale.
The early evening air around them was full of the dried alfalfa odor, dusty sweet. Grasshoppers chirped in the near distance. Here and there light-winged creatures flitted about. But nobody noticed any of this.
“Three tons on that load down town. Seven or so still on this farm. Two of that seven go in now on this truck and the ‘Shake. One more reloading of all three buses’ll just about fill that car, ten tons. We’ll do it, Nels, yet,” Charley rejoiced. “We’ll wipe this claim clean of Hoskins hay tonight, south ditch field crop and all.”
“South ditch crop!” Sayre broke out. “You don’t mean you baled that stuff?”
Charley laughed for the first time Sayre had heard him that afternoon. “We sure did. A lot of it, too.”
“But that hay’s got the Yellows from too much alkali?”
“The Yellows, and goodness only knows what else! Haven’t you been saying what a good place it’d make to run your poultry in because of the bugs in it?”
“I t’ank mebbe, Sharley, Papa Hoskins don’t know yet you have give him back dat field. Young Frank ain’t had no shance to tell him.” Then conversation ceased to thrive; there was too much work to do.
Considerably later that evening Sayre stood at one end of the railroad station platform. Near by, Mr. Hansen and Charley were crowding last bales into the dingy-looking freight car, while some distance away, at the platform’s other end, a stubby combination train, made up of one coach, one freight, and a caboose, was puffing, jerking and swaying to a stop in front of the prairie station of Upham, Wyoming.
“Guess I’ll go find out the score, Chuck.” Sayre knew that the passenger coach of the train held the boys of the high school football team, returning from the Hubble-Upham game.
Charley did not even turn his head. Instead he appeared completely engrossed in conversation with Mr. Hoskins, who had arrived on the spot in time to select the trimmest bales to be put near the door where the car would be plugged at Kansas City for market grading.
Sayre felt a surge of sympathy for her brother. Seeing the team of which he had once been captain return from a game in which he had had no share could hardly be a happy experience.
To greet it tonight would certainly have brought him no pleasure. A more dejected-looking outfit than those boys as they made their silent way, one by one, down the car steps to the station platform could scarcely be imagined. Not only were they stiff, bruised, and covered with patches of plaster; they were plainly ever sorer in spirit than body.
“How’d the game go?” Sayre asked Spencer Trowbridge, the first boy who came within earshot.
“Forty-four to nothing,” he muttered. “What’d you expect after Charley quit on us the way he did? Frank Hoskins is finished for the season, too. Threw his shoulder out.” Spens limped by without really stopping.
Linnie Petersen, a few feet behind Spens, took up the comment. “Frank takes it cool enough. Says it’ll give him more time for stock judging. He’s had it in for us anyway, ’cause we made Spens captain ‘stead o’ him after Morgan quit. It’s all Morgan’s fault. His quitting busted us all right, all the way ‘round.”
Small wonder Charley did not want to greet that returning team! Sayre was glad for him when everybody had left the scene.
As Sayre, Dad and Charley rode homeward late that night, squeezed close together on the seat of the ‘Shake, the girl asked, “What did Mr. Hoskins have to say about the hay, Charley, when you were talking to him?”
“Tickled jolly there was so much. Didn’t say a thing, either, about my having Nels working with me instead of one of his regular men. He looked considerable, though, at first sight of Nels. But he was mad then at the railroad company for sending him such a dirty old car. He was in such a big hurry that he had to take anything, I guess. It came in so late, too, that there wasn’t time nor light enough to give it much of a cleaning.
“But when he found out we’d filled it up with what was left of the Parsons hay, and had six bales besides that we couldn’t get in, he lighted up. Said he hadn’t expected to get so much—that the crop had gone big—beyond anybody’s reckoning. Then he began handing out a lot of sugary talk about you, Sayre. (I’d told him you helped with the last loading.) How gritty you are. And what a farmer you’re getting to be! Not afraid to tackle any kind o’ work.”
“Did you explain about the south ditch field? How it made the extra hay?”
“Explained nothing. I left all that to his dear son, Frank, to report.”
12
The Comeback
“Something’s wrong with this town.”
It was Saturday evening, two worried weeks after the shipping of the Parsons hay. The problem of the Morgans’ own hay was not yet solved. The twins had come to only one definite conclusion; not one pound of hay would they buy for either work or cash from Mr. Hoskins.
Now, Sayre with Hitty at her side had just turned the ‘Shake from the country road into Upham’s main business street, and nodded to young Ole Larsen, the first acquaintance she had met.
Dad, of course, was at the store. He had ridden into town at noon with a neighbor. Sayre was to bring him home later, along with Charley, who had gone on an all-day jaunt with the high school stock-judging team into the neighboring mountains to practice judging on some of the big stock ranches there.
“Something’s decidedly wrong with this town.” By this time the ‘Shake had reached the end of the second business block, and Sayre had received constrained greetings from a half-dozen people, all local farmers and their wives.
“Whatever’s wrong with this town, it is something connected with me.” Sayre was now parking the ‘Shake in front of the post-office. She had detected Rene Osgood there in a group of five or six town women gathered into a knot, chatting sociably. One could be pretty sure to learn from Rene the latest community news merely from the way the girl’s edged talk would rattle on.
But as Sayre stepped down from the ‘Shake to cross the sidewalk, the buzz of the knot-lik
e group sank into a sudden silence which brought the girl sharp discomfort. She felt pricked all over by six or seven pairs of eyes, which seemed to be attempting to bore into her inner consciousness with hostile curiosity. Rene, however, moved forward to greet her much more naturally than had been her wont ever since the fight.
“Hello, Sayre. Bringing in some of your chickens and eggs to customers? Well, you’re one pupil that’s bringing our high school some success. And we sure need it. Isn’t the season’s football record awful? What with Charley’s quitting, and Frank’s shoulder? They say, though, that Frank’s shoulder’s really been weak ever since that fight he had with Charley.”
“Oh, Rene, that’s not—”
“And now! This latest! Right when everybody was beginning to count on the stock-judging team, and thinking our school had a chance at last at a team of some kind that’d amount to something. With such good chances for practice, too, what with Mr. Hoskins’ holding up the baling till he gets what hay he has out of the warehouse, and both Charley and Frank having more time to spend on judging, and Mr. Kitchell making plans to give those boys a lot of training.”
“Well, what’s going to prevent—”
“But now! People are pretty excited, I can tell you, waiting to see what Charley has to say for himself. How do you suppose those two boys are getting along together today at those mountain ranches? Here’s Mr. Kitchell, planning to take that team into the hills every possible week-end till the snow gets too heavy, to visit all the stock ranches around where there are cattle and sheep to judge, and make camping trips and outings out of it, so there’ll be fun for the boys as well as work.
“Fun! Imagine any fun, can you, with a small bunch of boys that has both Frank and Charley in it? Well, what I say is, and right to you, too, Sayre, even if Charley is your twin brother, nobody human could expect Frank Hoskins, after this latest performance of Charley’s, to pull hard and smooth on any team that still has Charley Morgan on it. They say, too—”
“They!” It was the first word Sayre had been able to wedge in so as to make itself noticed. “Who is this ‘they’ anyway that’s responsible for all the false and catty things that you, Rene Osgood, always manage to hear and repeat over this whole community?”
Grasping the hippity-hopping Hitty by one hand Sayre walked away, head held high. She’d just take her time doing her errands, without stopping to speak to another person. She wouldn’t go to Hosiers’ store, though; it was too much the center of things, too full of people talking among themselves. She’d buy the heavy black thread and the chicken grit she needed at that insignificant little store farther down. If inside of her she was full of curious dismay at whatever this latest development was that she had failed to learn from Rene, nobody on that busy street was going to suspect it!
Saturday evening, the one evening when the stores kept open, was always the busiest time of the week in the raw, wind-swept town of Upham. Shopping was a slow process, intermingled with a sociability among waiting customers which Sayre had come to enjoy. Tonight, however, although she saw many people she knew, the sociability failed to include her. And it certainly was not all her own fault; talk died down in any vicinity the minute she approached it. Yet she managed to overhear rather fully one half-enlightening conversation, uttered by high, unguarded women’s voices in the little store where she bought the grit.
“It’s altogether too much for anybody to stand when one high school kid’s spite against another high school kid goes as far as that. Wreckin’ a whole locality o’ folks that ain’t ever done either of ’em no harm.”
“I got my notion o’ what’s at the bottom of it. There’s been a lot o’ this talk here lately about its bein’ a mistake for this irrigation project to stick so much to selling hay. ’Twas the teacher started that talk.”
“If he did, he ain’t had nothing to do with this thing. It’d be too hard on his own business. Nearly all that part-time class o’ his was furriners, you know. They’ve all been growing alfalfa for Hoskins’ contest. Now, that’s busted, and like as not they’ll take it out on the teacher. They’re that kind, dumb and stubborn-like, you know, when they get a grouch about a thing that don’t go right.”
“Well, I dunno about that. Most of ’em eat out of Nels Hansen’s hand, and he swears strong by the teacher. There’s some say Nels is in on this thing, too—more’n what the teacher is.”
“Nels ‘n the teacher ain’t in on it, neither of ’em. They’re both too square. Look at the teacher. Hasn’t he helped every boy in that contest all he could with his alfalfa growing, whether he believed in what he was growing it for or not. Besides, he’s got sense. He hasn’t been forcing people to swallow pills they don’t want to.”
“Well, he ain’t had sense in not shutting that boy up, with all his talk about vocational agriculture high school work being able to teach every farmer on this whole reclamation project, kids and old men, alike. Charley Morgan’ll find out quick enough now who’re his betters. Trouble with that kid is, he’s spoilt, and spoilt bad. Got his head so turned with praise about that dinky little manure spreader, and then them peas, that he sets himself up as fit to run all the farmin’ on the whole Pawaukee Irrigation Project, and Hoskins’ hay business, thrown in. The gall of him!”
“He’s always seemed such a nice boy, too, so pleasant and friendly. I’d never have—”
“I’m sorry for Mr. Hoskins, with those suits coming on, and all.”
“I’m a heap more sorry for the rest of us. Hoskins won’t have to take our hay now, I suppose, even in payment of debts. And it’s a sure thing we can’t sell it ourselves, not when Missouri—”
“Sayre, when are we going to the movies?”
“Right away.” The tug of Hitty’s impatient hand on hers had roused Sayre to the realization of how intently she had been eavesdropping.
She was glad to lose herself in the darkness of the movie house. Because tonight the ‘Shake would have to wait for Charley, who had gone to the hills in Mr. Kitchell’s car, Sayre had promised herself and Hitty this rare indulgence. But her own anticipated pleasure failed. Her enjoyment was more than blunted by troubled foreboding. And that foreboding was growing as, after the movie, she sat beside the now very drowsy Hitty in the ‘Shake, which was parked in front of Hoskins’ store. There she awaited her father’s coming with an assumed unselfconsciousness. Although the hour was growing late for Upham, two or three groups of men were still standing on the neighboring walk, deep in somber converse.
Dad’s appearance, when it came, brought Sayre anything but reassurance. Never, so it seemed to her, through all the disasters of their family’s shifting fortunes, had she seen her father look so worn, so apologetically dejected, as when his springless step carried him across that distance between the store and the waiting ‘Shake. Friendly and kindly by nature, with a friendliness and kindliness that had flourished and bloomed beyond all precedent during that last year’s experience in that store, he walked through those knots of men, every one of whom he knew, with lowered head and without greetings. They on their part merely stepped aside to let him pass, watching him move forward, and stopping all conversation as long as he was within earshot.
Defensive resentment against a fate she did not understand mounted in Sayre. She greeted her father with casual pleasantness, entirely ignoring his obvious mood. She waited until he was completely seated, then turned on the ignition, pushed in the clutch, threw the car into gear, and started the ‘Shake on its chugging journey with unusual deliberation. And she refused to give it anything approaching speed until it had sputtered its way down the entire length of Upham’s business street to the first residential corner.
“Well, Dad?” At last she had turned to her silent father. Her words were inquiry, sympathy and protest, all in one.
His answer was simple, disheartening fact. “I’ve lost my position.”
Sayre did not dare to reply until she had control of her impulsiveness. “Why?” she managed at last.
“He says because he can’t afford to keep so much help any longer. That he’s got to manage with a clerk or two less.”
“Is that the truth?”
“True enough, I guess, considering the situation. But turning off Charley’s dad was easy, even rather pleasant. I’ve always been afraid that the trouble between those two boys would affect my position. And now I can’t blame Mr. Hoskins. I certainly can’t blame him.”
Her father’s acquiescent dejection suddenly angered Sayre. She threw overboard all attempt to control her impulsiveness. “Well, I certainly can. I call it downright petty spitefulness. After you’ve done more than twice the work he’s paid you for all these months. And held him trade that he would certainly have lost after the water users’ meeting, if you hadn’t been his clerk. I hope he loses it good and plenty from now on.”
Her father shook his head. “I would never have thought it of Charley. It’s that that’s taken the heart out of me more than anything else.”
“Thought what of Charley?” was on the tip of Sayre’s tongue. Instead of saying it, she pressed out a raucous honk and brought the ‘Shake to an abrupt stop. For there on the corner, walking along with a brisk, set determination, was Charley, whom they had expected to meet in front of the house where Mr. Kitchell boarded.
“Mr. Hoskins still at the store?” the boy demanded at once of his father.
“Yes, he’s alone there. Going over the ledger before he locks up.”
“Take me there, Sayre. Fast as you can.”
Sayre obeyed, as grimly quiet now as her brother was. She knew this Charley. She had seen him twice before; first, at the fight; and then again, two weeks ago today, when the last of the baling was going on.
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