In the Face of Danger

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Mr. Cartwright pulled another roll of drawings from his saddlebags and carefully untied the cord. "Here are some of my sketches of Indians," he said as he laid the drawings on the table.

  Megan was even more interested in these than in the

  beautiful scenes of mountain country. She smiled at a sketch of an Indian baby peering with bright eyes from the pack on his mother's back. There was an old man—'*a tribal chieftain," Mr. Cartwright explained—whose face was a mass of deep, squiggly wrinkles. And there was a girl with black eyes who made Megan think of the Indian girl she had seen on the road.

  Megan was surprised when Mr. Cartwright suddenly lifted her chin with one finger and studied her face. "I would like to sketch you," he said. "Would you sit very still by the fireplace where the light can shine on your hair? It will be just a sketch, so it won't take long."

  Megan nodded, and Enmia beamed with pleasure. "See, Megan," she said. "Mr. Cartwright thinks you are beautiful, too."

  "Yes," Mr. Cartwright said. "Megan's a lovely young lady, but I see something more than just beauty. It's the special look in her eyes I want to capture."

  "What look?" Megan asked, blushing because everyone was studying her.

  "I'm not sure," he answered. "I think I see a little sorrow, a little happiness, and some memories you've kept secret from all but yourself."

  Enima's eyes widened and she nervously smoothed down her apron. "Would you like Megan to change to another dress?" Enmia asked. "She has a lovely dark red one. Should I braid her hair?"

  "I want to sketch Megan exactly the way she is now." Mr. Cartwright pulled some pencils from his pack and attached a small sheet of paper to a flat, smooth board. He stationed Megan on a footstool near the hearth and tilted her head a little to the left so that a long strand of her dark hair fell over one shoulder. "Don't move," he said and went back to his chair.

  With Emma standing behind him murmuring, "Oh, yes! Oh, that*s very like her!" and Ben leaning sideways now and then to sneak glances at the sketch, Mr. Cartwright worked with quick, sure strokes. In about fifteen minutes he said, "If you don't mind holding the pose a while longer, Megan, we'll have a sketch for you and one for me.

  "I don't mind," she said, trying not to move her head. Mr. Cartwright took the sketch off the board and handed it to an admiring Emma, who cooed and clucked over it He attached another sheet and set to work again.

  When he had finished, he put both sketches on the table and beckoned to Megan. "I'll give you your choice," he said.

  Megan stared at the sketches, her heart beating faster. She had seen herself in mirrors or reflected in window glass, but now she was looking at a different Megan. The same pointed chin, the same dark, straight hair, but eyes that held their own story. In those eyes she could see some of Da's mischief, some of Ma's smile, and her own unshed tears. **That girl is really me," she whi^)ered in awe.

  "Megan seems a little solemn in your drawings, but they're beautiful!" Emma exclaimed. Megan could feel Enmia's excitement tingle through her own body as Emma wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "What a wonderful honor to have an artist draw your picture!"

  Megan was amazed at the sketches. They showed more about her than she wanted people to see, even more than she wanted to see herself. How had Mr. Cartwright known what she was like inside?

  "What will you do with the sketch I give you?" Mr. Cartwright asked.

  Megan thought for a moment "I'll put it away care-fuUy where it can't be harmed. It will be my treasure."

  **If ifs put away, you can't see it and erjoy it," Emma said. '*Ben can make a frame for it."

  "Which one do you choose?" Mr. Cartwright asked.

  Megan couldn't decide. She closed her eyes and pointed to one of the sketches. *This one."

  ''It's yours," Mr. Cartwright said. He signed the bottom of the sheet of paper with a flourish and began to pack his materials and roll up his sketches and paintings.

  "What will you do with the other sketch of me?" Megan asked him.

  "I'm not sure," he said. "Maybe someday I'll use it as the basis of a painting. Maybe I'll frame it as it is and include it in a showing of my sketches on the trail. Maybe I'll just erjoy looking at it." He grinned and added, "If I manage to become a famous artist, you might become famous yourself. The sketch may hang in a museum, and the people who look at it will ask, 'Who is this mystery girl?' And no one will know until you come forward to tell them."

  "There's an easier solution to the problem," Megan said. "Just write my name on the back of the paper."

  Mr. Cartwright looked so startled that Ben laughed. "Megan takes a practical approach to life," Ben said. He turned to Megan. "Mr. Cartwright has a long way to travel tomorrow, so I think we should let him get his rest tonight," he said.

  Emma made a pallet on the floor near the fireplace for their visitor. Megan went to her own room, carrying her oil lamp in one hand and the sketch Mr. Cartwright had made of her in the other. With her door closed, she laid the sketch on the bed and examined it. She liked the way he had drawn her to be a little like Ma, a little like Da. As for the secrets, only Mr. Cartwright and she had seen them, so they were still her own.

  She tightly rolled the sketch again and placed it in the bottom of the chest, where it would be safe until Ben made a frame for it.

  In the morning, after a hearty breakfast of boiled eggs and wheat bread with wild plum jam, Mr. Cartwright said his farewells and rode away toward the east. Megan washed the dishes, fed the pups again, and went out to the bam to lend a hand to Ben.

  She had just finished forking great loads of clean hay into the stalls when she heard a loud "Halloo" and the rattle and creak of a wagon. She raced to the front of the house, pulling wisps of hay from her tousled hair and trying to brush the dust from her skirt. This time it had to be Mr. Haskill.

  It was, but someone was with him. Megan stopped short, suddenly shy as a woman in a dark blue coat stared at her from the seat of the wagon. The woman was tall and thin, with deep-set eyes shaded by the ostrich plumes on her wide-brinmed hat. She was not a young woman and not very pretty; her nose was pinched and narrow, and her heavy eyebrows were darker than her hair. Megan, remembering her manners, tried to smile, but the woman looked away from her, studying the Browders' house.

  Ben came up behind Megan and took the horse's bridle. "Farley!" he said. "Come in! Come in!" He turned to the woman, unable to conceal his surprise.

  Farley jumped from the wagon and hurried to help the woman climb down. "I'd like you to meet my wife, Ada Blackwell—uh, that is, Ada Haskill. Ada, this is Ben Browder and his daughter, Megan."

  "Well, well. Fm pleased as punch for you, Farley," Ben stammered. "It's good to meet you, ma'am. Emma will be so happy to have a woman as a close neighbor."

  The woman answered with a nod, then turned toward the front door, which Emma had just flung open.

  "Farley!" Emma shouted, then saw the woman. Her mouth opened and she blinked a couple of times before she was able to smile a welcome.

  "Farley^s brought home a wife!" Ben called to Enuna, *This is Ada. Ada, Td like you to meet my wife, Enuna."

  Enmia ran awkwardly toward Ada, her arms spread wide in welcome. "Fm so happy to meet you," she said. "Fm so happy for Farley!"

  Ada accepted Enuna's hug stiffly and with surprise. "How do you do?" she said formally. Her speech sounded a little strange, almost foreign, to Megan.

  "You must stay for dinner," Enuna said. "Please—come inside. I know youYe tired from your long ride. Did you come from St. Joseph? Have you seen Farley's—^your— home yet? Have you had a chance to unpack?"

  Ben smiled. "Enmia, let Ada sit down before you start in asking questions." As the women walked toward the house, Ben began to unhitch Farley's horse. "We'll stable this fellow in the bam with some feed," he said to Farley, "and you can tell me how you met your wife."

  Megan looked from the women to the men, not sure which way to go. She decided to follow Emma. This was a very interesting turn
of events, and she was sure that Emma would be able to find out more of the details than Ben ever would.

  By the time Megan arrived inside the house, Mrs. Haskill had taken off her coat and was removing her hat, placing it on a small table near the window. Jet beads on the long hatpins winked and gleamed in the sunlight. Megan touched a finger to the silver-blue plumes. "Your hat is beautiful!" she murmured.

  "Thank you," Mrs. Haskill said. Under her heavy brows she gave Megan a curious look.

  "You're dressed like the ladies in New York City," Megan said. "Do you come from there?"

  "No, I do not," Mrs. Haskill said. "I am from England. I came to the United States and resided for a short while in Boston with distant cousins."

  Emma came forward with a cup of tea "Here," she said. 'Tm sure you need this." As Mrs. Haskill accepted the cup, Emma sat in a chair facing her. *Tell me how you came to meet Farley," she said. "He's never been to Boston."

  Mrs. Haskill took a long sip of the tea and gave a little shudder. 'This is not English tea," she said.

  "Why, no," Emma answered. "It's made from dried herbs and leaves. My good friend Nelda made the mixture for me. It has a pleasing flavor, don't you think?"

  Mrs. Haskill didn't answer. She took another sip of tea and stared into the cup as though she were thinking very hard. Finally she raised her head and looked directly at Emma. "My marriage with Mr. Haskill was arranged," she said "We corresponded with each other, and I agreed to travel to St Joseph to meet him. Our meeting seemed pleasurable to both of us, so we were married two days ago."

  "Oh." Enuna looked embarrassed. "How nice for both of you."

  Mrs. Haskill drained the cup of tea and shrugged. "An impoverished woman, without close kin to care for her, has little choice but to marry. The situation in my cousins' home had become disagreeable, so I decided to take this opportunity to live in the West" Her nostrils seemed to become even more pinched as she added, "However, I must say that I expected the western part of this country to be quite different from the way I found it. This Kansas territory is hardly an attractive place in which to live."

  "You don't see beauty in the prairie?" Megan was so astonished that she interrupted without thinking. "Of course, right now the grass is turning brown, but Emma says that in the spring the hills will be green and there will be wildflowers."

  Mrs. Haskill looked at her sharply, then turned to Enmia. "Your daughter doesn't favor you," she said. "Your eyes are brown, as are your husband's, and the girl's eyes are blue. And her speech. If 1 didn't know better, I'd think—"

  She broke off, and Enuna said, "Oh, Megan is our adopted child. We chose her."

  "I'm from New York City," Megan said. "My name is Megan Eileen Kelly." Trying to put Mrs. Haskill more at ease, she smiled and added, "And don't feel badly about being impoverished. I was impoverished, too."

  Mrs. Haskill turned to Enmia with bewilderment and said, "I'm sure your intentions were excellent, but I fail to understand how you could possibly take into your home a child who is—who is shanty Irish!"

  Megan gasped, unable to believe her ears. The color rose in Emma's cheeks, and her eyes sparked as shock gave way to anger. Dehberately she smoothed her apron over her knees, tilted her chin a little higher, and said firmly, "Mrs. Haskill, Fm sure youVe so exhausted from the long ride that you don't know what you're saying."

  Mrs. Haskill looked puzzled as she tried to explain, speaking as though Megan weren't there. "But my dear Mrs. Browder, I do know what I'm saying. It's conunon knowledge that the Irish are dull-witted and lazy and therefore never able to rise above the laboring class."

  "There's not one word of truth in that statement!" Emma said.

  Megan's face burned hot with anger, and she gripped the seat of her chair, trying to keep from speaking the words she was thinking.

  Mrs. Haskill appeared flustered. One hand crept to her cheeks, which were pink with embarrassment. When she spoke, her tone was conciliatory, and her words came slowly, as though she believed she could persuade Emma

  to listen to reason. "You are obviously not as knowledgeable about the Irish as the English are, since we have had closer dealings with them."

  Megan knew about those "closer dealings." She well remembered Da*s stories about the British armies that swept across Ireland, burning homes and tearing the roofs from churches. No allegiance was allowed except to the British Crown, and property was stolen from landowners and given to subjects loyal to England. Those Irish who emigrated to England or the United States, trying to keep from starving, found that laboring jobs were the only ones given to them—if jobs were offered at all.

  "I am not alone in my beliefs," Mrs. Haskill continued. "In Boston it is quite usual to see, in the windows of shops and small businesses, Help Wanted advertisements that specify *No Irish need apply.'" She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap as though the discussion had come to a satisfactory conclusion.

  But Enmia hadn't finished. "It's a pity that in Boston there are so many small-minded, mealymouthed people who can't see beyond the ends of their tumed-up noses! I hope that living in Kansas with people who know how to value each other will broaden your education, Mrs. Haskill." Enmia's eyes bored into the other woman's as she leaned forward and snapped, "And perhaps greatly improve your manners!"

  Mrs. Haskill gasped, and her teacup rattled so hard in its saucer that she had to put it on the table.

  The door flew open. Ben and Mr. Haskill stomped the dust from their feet on the front stoop and stepped into the room.

  "Well, well," Ben said, beaming at the two women. "You should be pretty well acquainted by now. Emma, I

  told Ada and Farley that you'd be excited about having another woman as a close neighbor." Ben turned to Mr. Haskill. "We'll see if Emma can make us a little something special for dinner to celebrate."

  Enrnia sat staring straight ahead with her back stiff and her hands so tightly folded her knuckles were white. She didn't repeat the invitation.

  "I—I'm sure that Enuna would—" Ben blundered on, but Mrs. Haskill interrupted him. Trembling, she rose to her feet.

  "No, thank you," she said. "I wish to become acquainted with my new home as soon as possible."

  "But we—" Mr. Haskill began.

  Ignoring her husband, Mrs. Haskill glanced around the room and sighed. "Living in this prinutive fashion is going to be quite a change for me."

  Emma's eyes narrowed with concern as she asked Mr. Haskill, "Farley, have you told Ada anything about your home?"

  Mr. Haskill looked uncomfortable. "I—^I've never had the words to describe things easily," he stammered. "Anyhow, I figured there'd be things she'd want to do to fix it up her own way." He threw a panic-stricken glance at Ben. "I gave it a good cleaning afore I left. Did it look all right to you?"

  "It looked fine," Ben said. "I told Emma I couldn't get over how well you'd cleaned it."

  Mr. Haskill let out a long sigh of relief. Ben glanced from Emma to Mrs. HaskiU, and Megan could see that he was confused by the tension in the air.

  "Enmia," he said, "we can fix up a basket of things for Ada to take to her new home. Put in a loaf or two of the bread you baked this morning, and some of your plum jam.

  Without a word Emma walked to the kitchen table.

  opened the nearby cupboard, and began to put things into a woven reed basket.

  "Ada, you*ll love Emma's wild plum jam," Ben contiii-ued. "Fm sure she'll teach you to make your own, come summer when the fruit is ripe."

  The pups began to yip and whine, and Mrs. Hastdfl glanced toward their box, wrinkling her nose in distasle. She turned to Ben, and her voice was cold. "I know how to make jam, thank you. I am well versed in all the disciplines needed to operate a household."

  Ben rubbed his chin before he answered, and Megan could see that he was sizing up Mrs. Haskill. But he said anuably, "Neighbors are a real necessity out here where families are spaced so far apart We're glad to welcome you to the territory, and if you need or
want for anything, we're here to help you out. Farley's always been a good neighbor to us, and we're nughty thankful to have him nearby."

  Mr. Haskill clapped a hand on Ben's shoulder, mumbling his own thanks, but Mrs. Haskill gave an imperious nod. She gracefully put on her coat, looked around the room for a mirror, and finding none, impatiently pinned on her elegant hat "As soon as I've unpacked my china, Mr. Haskill and I will invite you to dine," she said.

  Ben blinked with surprise. Enuna strode to where Mrs. Haskill was standing and shoved a napkin-covered basket at her. Mrs. Haskill had no choice but to grab the handle before the basket fell on her toes.

  "Thank you," Mrs. HaskiU said formally.

  "You're welcome." Emma's words were equally cool.

  Ben and Mr. Haskill left to hitch the horses, and Mrs. Haskill followed. Enmia hesitated, obviously torn between following the basic rules of courtesy and giving in to her feelings. Firmly she shut the door and wrapped her arms around Megan.

  "It's the Irish in you that makes you so special and wonderful," she murmured against Megan's hair. "Pay no attention to what that dreadful woman said!"

  Megan hugged her back, having trouble getting her arms about Emma's waist, which seemed to be growing thicker each day. "I've heard things like that before," Megan reassured her. *There were some in New York City who had no use for the Irish or for that matter anyone diflferent from themselves. Ma told us to feel sorry for them because they were not only ignorant but wanted to stay that way."

  Enmia smiled "A good description of Ada Haskill."

  "I don't like her," Megan said.

  "Neither do I. But then who would?" Emma filled the kettle from the jar that held fresh water brought from the well that morning and hung it on one of the arms at the side of the fireplace, swinging it over the fire to heat up. "It's perfectly clear why she couldn't find a husband in Boston and had to come west to marry Farley."

  "Poor Mr. Haskill," Megan said. She peeked through the window and watched Mrs. Haskill struggle with her skirts as she climbed to the seat of the wagon.