But Mr. Cleaver seemed to feel differently. “This is fine!” he said. “You kids are going to be mighty comfortable when you get settled. It’s a palace for Tripp County. Hello, what’s the matter with the window? And that one, too! Why, they’re all broken.”
Sure enough, every pane in the house was cracked, or contained fragments of glass. Broken slivers lay on the floor, and stones in the corners of the rooms explained how the damage had been done.
“The vandals!” exclaimed Mr. Cleaver. “Now who do you suppose could have done that!"
“It must have been someone who lives near-by,” said Becky, with a troubled look. “This is such an out-of-the-way place that no one would come so far off the main road just to break windows.” “But you have no near neighbors except the Wubbers and the Courtlands. Wubber is a ne’er-do-well, but he hasn’t a mean bone in his body, and the Courtlands aren’t that kind at all. They’re good neighbors. Probably it was some villain of a boy. Wish I could get new panes out of his hide.”
“That means no windows for tonight. Lucky it isn’t stormy, and that we have some mosquito bar. I suppose Dick will have to get new glass and a man to set it tomorrow. If it should rain we’d be flooded.”
“I’ll send a man out with the glass in the morning,” offered Mr. Cleaver. “One that can set it, too. Makes me ashamed to find such miserable skunks as this in our community. We’re not all like that, Miss Becky.”
The girl gave him a grateful look. “I know that.”
The children had wandered out into the door yard and stopped to get a drink. “This pump won’t work,” said Phil.
Mr. Cleaver threw the last stone through the doorway, and went out to help him. The pump handle rose and fell without resistance. “Work! of course it won’t work. That pump’s pulled out!” His face was wrathful. “Look at it! I believe someone has been trying to take it away, but couldn’t quite lift it out. That’s another thing that will have to be fixed, right away. You kids have got to have water.”
“Is it a very expensive job?” asked Becky anxiously.
“It won’t cost you a cent — not a red cent. I’ll have it done myself and I’ll spend the rest of my days in Dakota getting the pay from the man who did it. I’d like to have him here this minute. Fortunately, the pump isn’t broken; it’s just pulled loose.”
“Will we dare to use the creek for drinking water?”
“You can use it for the horses. You’ll have to get water at the spring, a half mile above here, for yourselves. It isn’t the water I’m worrying about; it’s the dirty trick. A fine welcome for you kids!”
“It would be a lot worse if you weren’t here,” said Becky.
“I’ll do my best to help you fix things — that’s all I can do now. I’ll send the car out with a man, early in the morning. I ought to be getting back to Dallas; s’pose you and the children drive with me up the creek, so I can show you the spring. Maybe I can borrow a bucket for you to bring back some water.”
“I think I’d better stay around here. I don’t want any more windows broken, or to be gone when Dick comes. But I’ll be glad to have Joan and Phil go if they can find their way home again.”
“Come on, kids.” He lifted them into the car. “Wish I could stick around and help you get settled.”
“Come back and see us when we are settled.”
“I will, and Mrs. Cleaver will come with me.” That seemed to remind him of something. He lifted the market basket from the car, and set it in front of Becky. “Don’t know what my wife would have said to me if I had brought this back home. She thought you might not want to stop to cook, today. Good-by, and good luck. I’ll send the kids back in a few minutes.” And away went the car and his friendly smile.
Becky opened the basket almost before they were out of sight. There was a loaf of homemade bread, some thin slices of boiled ham wrapped in waxed paper, a box of cookies, and a jar of raspberry jam. Her heart warmed to the kindliness. They were not without friends, even in a new country.
The girl pulled up an empty nail keg, and sat down in the doorway. It would be noon before Dick could get there; there was nothing to do but wait. She sat with hands in her lap, looking out at that intense blue of sky, that vivid green of earth, the shine and sparkle of that golden sunshine. Her eyes followed the prairie to the stake which Mr. Cleaver had pointed out as their section line. As far as eye could see that lush meadow land was theirs. Platteville, with Uncle Jim gone, was nothing to be lonely for. The Jumping-Off Place was home now.
CHAPTER III
NEIGHBORS
IT WAS nearly noon when the household goods arrived. Joan and Phil had brought back a bucket of water, explored the plum thicket, and were sending up squeals of ecstasy from the creek’s edge when Mr. Wubber drove up to the door. Behind him came Dick, driving a dusty team, with a red cow switching her tail behind the loaded wagon. The two children, wild with excitement, ran to meet them.
“’Zat our cow?” said Joan, critically. “She looks as though she had adenoids.”
“All cows look that adenoidish way,” remarked Phil. “May I drive her to the barn?”
“Tired?” called Becky from the doorway. Dick wiped his dusty face. “Not tired, but dry as a cork. Got any water?”
Becky produced the pail and her pocket cup, and the two drank thirstily before they went back to the load.
“Take down the kitchen table for me,” said Becky, “and the box of supplies. We’ll all need lunch before we set to work.”
Mr. Wubber nodded his approval. “That’s the ticket!” said he.
Becky opened the cartons of groceries that they had purchased in Dallas, and set the bare table with crackers and cheese, bread and ham, and the gift cookies. She passed oranges with a generous hand. In the months to come she often looked back with a smile at her lavishness with that rarest article of prairie diet, fresh fruit.
It was not until Dick came in to lunch that he noticed the broken windows. He looked very much disturbed. “That the kind of neighbors we have around here?” he asked Mr. Wubber.
“Only one family about here that’s likely to have had a hand in that. Except for them you’ll find pretty fair neighbors.”
“Who are they?”
“The Welps. I can’t say that they did it, but it would be like ’em. The old lady isn’t so bad, but her husband and the two boys are skunks.”
“But why would they have it in for us?”
“They got it in fer everybody.”
“Hope they’re not near neighbors. Where do they live?”
Mr. Wubber looked uneasy. “Over that way,” he said vaguely, with a bob of his head toward the south.
“I hope it wasn't neighbors,” said Becky, with an anxious look. “I’d rather think it was the work of boys — mischief would be better than meanness.”
“Either one lets in mosquitoes,” suggested Joan.
“This is something like!” said Mr. Wubber, from his seat on a box. “Don’t often get cookies like these. And the chances are I wouldn’t have got much of anything this noon at home; the missus said this morning that she wasn’t going to bust herself getting dinner.”
Mr. Wubber was a most appreciative guest. There was nothing on the table that he didn’t try, try again. Even Dick and Phil, who had no mean capacity of their own, eyed with wonder the amount consumed by their neighbor. It was not until the last crumb had vanished that he took a final mighty drink, which exhausted the water supply, and suggested that they get to work; if things had to be done you might as well git ’em out of the way.
“Better set up the oil stove first,” suggested Phil. “Eating’s the most important thing.”
“You mustn’t make an idol out of that stomach of yours, Sonny,” admonished Mr. Wubber. “We better set up the beds first, soon as we get the floor spreads down.”
All hands set to work. In what Joan called the middle “department,” they rolled a rug down on the floor, set up a double bed, and two cots for the small ch
ildren. Into that room went the only bureau, (Becky looked worried when she thought of the three drawers that must hold the family wardrobe), two chairs, and all the trunks.
“What’s that corner shelf for?” asked Dick.
Becky looked at the triangular piece of painted wood that fitted into a corner of the room. Below it Uncle Jim had fastened a long rod of metal. “That’s why he told us to take the clothes hangers that I was going to leave behind. He even thought of a closet for us.”
Uncle Jim had evidently gone as far as he could to make the house ready for occupancy. He had built shelves and driven nails in the kitchen, painted borders around the bedroom and livingroom floors, screwed hooks on the back of every door. Every sign of his thoughtfulness was a sword in Becky’s wound, and the hard physical work, that somehow made her grief a little less, was a god-send. At three o’clock the beds and stove were set up, the bedding unpacked, the crates opened, and Mr. Wubber had gone. At four Dick’s bed in the living-room — a bed that was to be a couch by day — was made, the mosquito netting had been tacked outside the broken windows, the oil stove had been started, and a pot of potatoes was boiling over the flame; the two rocking-chairs were in their places, and the living-room table held a reading lamp and some books. The clock and Uncle Jim’s picture stood on a shelf. It began to look like home — a rough, splintery, barn-like place, but still a home.
“Now,” said Becky, with a sigh of weariness and satisfaction, “That’s done! My hands feel like sandpaper. Let’s wash off the outer layer of dirt to limber us up a little. Then we’ll have an early supper, and then we’ll take a little trip around the place to see our preserves.”
Dick milked the cow, the two children went to the spring for more water, and Becky fried bacon and eggs. The afternoon breeze died down. Little gold-tinged clouds began to float in the sky. The children, with less wrangling than usual, put the supper dishes back on the kitchen shelves. And the four young homesteaders, walking close together for companionship, went forth to look at their land. First down to the creek that twisted like a snake back and forth through the claim. It lay open to the sky, with no trees or brush to shade it. A little thicket of wild plums grew between it and the house — the nearest approach to a tree that was in sight.
“Gee,” said Dick, “It’s swell to have a creek on the place.”
“We’ve always wanted to own some water of our own, as long as we’ve lived,” said Becky, “and now we do.”
Dick’s face showed his pleasure. “I’m going to dam it up when I find the right place. No reason why we can’t have a swimming hole of our own.”
Phil and Joan gave a squeal of delight. “Maybe we can have swans,” suggested Joan. “I’d love to have swans.”
Phil eyed her with scorn. “Why don’t you suggest osteriches! I’m going to have ducks.”
“Smartie! You think you’re the bossee of the place.”
“Whenever you’re tempted to scrap,” sang Dick.
And the children joined in the gay chorus of Uncle Jim’s Fight Song:
Remember your mouth is a trap …
As long as your teeth are set snugly and tight
You’ve a grip on yourself and the fellow you fight,
And the madder he gets, why the harder you bite …
So whenever you’re having a scrap
Remember your mouth is a trap.
“Le’s go over and hunt up the prairie dog town,” suggested Phil. “Mr. Cleaver showed us where it is: between those two hill-ish places.” He pointed to a ravine that lay ahead of them.
The young homesteaders plowed their way through the shaggy grass that grew so lush and green along the slough. They came out upon level ground where the sod had been gnawed short over an acre or so of land, and dwarf-like figures stood motionless about a yard apart. There were dozens of them, sitting up on their hind legs and looking curiously at their visitors. One by one they barked, shook their small tails, and disappeared into the holes below them as the children approached.
“No wonder they call it a town. Look at the holes, all in rows, like streets,” said Joan.
“Mr. Cleaver says owls live in ’em, too,” added Phil. “He said they came flying in, every afternoon, and went right down into the holes with the dogs.”
“Maybe the prairie dogs have ’em for nurse girls,” said Joan, down on her knees and peering into the hole nearest her. “Owls wouldn’t mind being up in the night.”
“Look out!” sang out Dick. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, pulled her up on to her feet, and to one side. Almost on the spot where she had been kneeling a dust-colored loop of horrid life uncurled and writhed away through the deep grass.
“Now you see what you’ve got to look out for,” cried Dick. “Just luck that you didn’t get bitten.”
“Was that a snake?” breathed Joan, white and scared.
“It was a rattler. They always hang around prairie dogs, Uncle Jim said. I guess you’ve had enough for one day, Jonie. Tomorrow I’ll get out the canes Uncle Jim made for us to carry when we went through tall grass. Better to scare ’em off than get a bite.”
Phil looked his delight. “Oh gee, oh gee,” he breathed in ecstasy. “It was as thick as my arm. I wish Clem Hayden could a’ seen that: If we only had someone to show it to!”
“That,” predicted Dick, “is going to be the hardest thing about homesteading. There won’t be people to show things to.”
They turned back to the west to find the sky ablaze. Long islands of violet cloud ran into a sea of red and orange fire. The sun was a great ball of molten gold that turned to red as they watched, and seemed to fill the entire sea. It went lower and lower in the western sky; then it sank suddenly. In a flash it was night. The frogs began to sing; along the creek tiny flashes of light began to show, now appearing, then vanishing, like shiny winks.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Joan.
“Will o’ the wisps,” explained Becky. “It’s the phosphorescence in that damp ground.”
The dusk hid the rapt look on the little face at her side. Children who live with ten-year-old brothers have learned when to keep quiet, and how to avoid ridicule. Phosphorescence was a grown-up explanation; it was just as well not to dispute it. But one might have one’s own thoughts. And Joan, stumbling over the dusky prairie at Becky’s side, knew that she was to live for fourteen months in a wonder world, where fairy lights shone at night and fairy folk danced at the side of a creek.
“Le’s climb the big hill before dark,” suggested Phil.
“No,” said Becky firmly. “Not tonight. We’re all dead tired, and tomorrow’s going to be a big day of work. Bed’s the place for us.”
The frogs were sending out a cracked chorus of “Jer-ro-me, Jerr-rr-rome,” from the creek as they crept into their new beds. The little ones fell asleep almost as soon as they touched their pillows. Dick yawned heavily, and turned on his cot.
“Are you comfortable?” Becky called. He didn’t answer, and she said nothing more.
THERE was a loud hammering on the kitchen door. Becky gave a sudden start in bed. It seemed to her that she was back in Platteville, and Uncle Jim was knocking on his bed post to ask for a drink. But the bright light was streaming through the half-way partitions, and the hot prairie sun shone through the open windows.
“I’m coming,” she called, hurriedly getting into her clothes.
On the little platform that Uncle Jim had built outside of the back door stood three small children. The moment she opened the door, and saw the three tow-heads set above the burnt-brown faces, Becky knew where they belonged. “Isn’t your name Wubber?” she asked.
The older girl, a child of ten, nodded a shy assent. “Ma wants to borry an east cake,” she explained.
“Come in while I get it for you,” said Becky. “You’re the first visitors we’ve had. Tell me your names, so I’ll know what to call you.”
“I’m Crystal,” said the spokeswoman. “This here one is Venus. And the boy over
there is Autumn.”
The Linville children, partly dressed, peeped through the bedroom door at their guests. “Those are cow names,” commented Phil.
Becky gave him a warning glance. “No cows ever had as pretty names as those. Who chose them for you?”
“Ma. She’s the namer one.”
“Pull in two chairs, Phil, so the children can sit down. Venus will have to sit on a box.”
“We got three chairs to our house,” said Venus.
“Have you any more children at home?”
“We got Twinkle. She’s two.”
Becky got out the yeast cake and handed it to the little girl, but the Wubber family showed no inclination to move. Getting breakfast in such crowded quarters was out of the question, and Becky wondered how long the visit was to last. “Suppose you children run out and play. Phil and Joan may go, too, until their breakfast’s ready. Put on your overalls and look out for snakes.”
“Le’s go to the creek,” suggested Phil.
The oldest Wubber lingered a moment at the door.
“What is it, Crystal?”
“Ma said if you seemed willing about the east cake I was to borry a tablespoon of sody, too.”
The little girl took the twisted paper of soda and hurried away to join the others, just as Dick came through the doorway.
“Who are our guests?”
“The Wubbers — Crystal, Venus, and Autumn. Twinkle is at home.”
Dick gazed out of the window. “They look like Huldah, Freda, and Ira. Was this a social call — east and west clasp hands?”
“Western hands clasp ‘east,’” laughed Becky. “They came over for yeast cakes and soda.”
“Hope they won’t stay long. I want the kids to help me plant a garden. We’re too late to put it off another day.”
The Linville children were full of enthusiasm when they came in to breakfast. “The creek is full of tame suckers,” exulted Phil.
“How can suckers be tame?”
“They are tame,” defended Joan. “They aren’t scared of you at all. They come right up to you. Autumn caught four.”
The Jumping-Off Place Page 4