Hope on the Plains

by Linda Byler

  Suddenly, the door was flung open!

  Sarah screamed, but the sound was muffled by the scarf around her mouth. Only the bulging of her eyes and the veins in her neck gave away the fact that she had made any sound at all.

  Shep! Dear God, the dog! Then there was Manny, shouting commands, his face white and terrible, followed by Hannah entering with a pitch fork.

  The dog barked, growled, and latched onto Lemuel Short’s leg and would not let go. Glass mason jars went flying across the room, shattering in the corners, the sound of breaking glass mixed with hoarse curses and shouts as Hannah knocked the revolver off the table with the pitch fork.

  The second man lunged after it, but Hannah was too quick, dropping the pitch fork and grabbing it up, holding it in two hands, as steady as a rock.

  “You want a bullet or the pitch fork?” she asked, her voice calm.

  “Leggo! Leggo!” Lemuel Short writhed in the dog’s grip. Manny loosened his mother’s hands and used the rope to tie Lemuel’s hands before ordering Shep to let go. The scarf was used to tie the second man’s hands.

  “Sit,” Manny ordered, pushing them both into chairs.

  Sarah grabbed Abby, held her sobbing in her arms.

  The second man lunged for the back door. A short command from Manny and the dog was all over him, jaws locking on an arm, a shoulder, a leg, amid piercing screams.

  Manny bound them together with many lengths of rope, tied them to chairs. They were bound and restrained far too well to think of getting loose.

  It was Hannah who rode to the Klassermans, whipping Goat into an uneven trot that drained every ounce of strength from his already weary body.

  She found no one at home, the doors locked firmly, the only sound the milling around of a few cattle around the haystacks, the wind whistling along the ornate eaves of the house.

  There was nothing else to be done. Hannah grabbed the straw broom, turned the handle toward the closest window, and shoved, cracking the pane into splinters. Risking cuts on the palms of her hands, she reached through until she found the metal clasp on top of the wooden sash, turned it to the left, and pushed up with both hands.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, as she extended one leg through the opening, bent her back, and slid through. She found the black telephone, the sheriff’s number, and dialed carefully, holding her breath with concentration.

  It was soon over after the telephone call to the sheriff’s office, although Hannah had to leave a winded Goat in the Klassermans’ barn and ride home on one of their mean-tempered broncos, which almost unseated her before the ride home started.

  The house was filled with men, the yard jammed with automobiles. Hannah opened the barn door to lead the horse through, was calmly sliding the saddle off his wet back, when she heard her name whispered. Chills slid up her back. Her eyes opened wide.

  “Hannah! Hannah!”

  She turned, tried to locate the whispers. One dark head appeared from the loft, followed by another.

  “Eli! Mary!”

  “Can we come down?”

  “Of course. It’s over. The sheriff is here.”

  “We watched you leave on Goat, and we thought we’d better stay here. Do they … are they still here? Those men?”

  “Get down. Come on. I’ll tell you about it.”

  Two pairs of legs appeared, one after another they scrambled down, threw themselves at Hannah, who hunkered down and held them as if she would never let them go.

  She found Sarah seated on the rocking chair inside the living room door, rubbing the bruises on her wrists, a red, ugly welt appearing on her right cheekbone, dark bruises on each side of her mouth where the scarf had dug into her tender flesh.

  Hannah stood, unsure. The words that should have been spoken were all jammed up inside of her, so she said nothing.

  Sarah nodded, held her gaze. “I’ll be all right.”

  Manny stood in the kitchen, a hand on Shep’s head, the only restraint the dog required. Jealousy flickered through Hannah, the one thing Manny had done that out-maneuvered his sister, and it didn’t sit well with her.

  Shep was the undoubted hero. She eyed him. Looked into those yellowish brown dog eyes. He stared back at her intently, and his tail did not move an inch.

  I know you don’t like me, you dumb dog. I don’t like you either. But maybe I should.

  Hannah never watched them untie the two men, or escort them to the car. She could hardly stand to look at their wrinkled, sullen faces. Baggy old trousers with holes in them from the dog’s teeth. Blood all over everything. Green bean juice on their coat fronts. Greasy long hair and yellow teeth like a mule’s. She had no mercy on them. She didn’t pity either one, not even a thin slice of sympathy.

  Sarah and Manny talked with the sheriff and the investigators who asked questions and wrote reports.

  Hannah didn’t talk, mostly for the fact that she didn’t like these men, either. Why did they have to ask all these nosy questions? They could stick them into the jailhouse without knowing every tiny piece of information. It was a wonder they didn’t ask what kind of bean seeds they’d planted, and what type of jars they used to preserve them.

  They should all leave now, go home or to the sheriff’s office in Pine, or wherever it was that they all belonged.

  The man asking all the questions had a congested nose, speaking with a nasal twang, the way your voice came out if you put a clothespin on top of it. He kept sniffing, drawing air through his thin nostrils, until Hannah wanted to give him a handkerchief and tell him to use it! Blow as hard as he could. She bet it would be wondrous!

  His sideburns were so long she couldn’t tell if he has thought about growing a beard along the side of his face, then changed his mind but didn’t finish shaving it off. Maybe he couldn’t grow anything on his chin.

  Sarah was unfailing in her kindness, speaking clearly, trying to remember to the best of her ability, Manny helping her over the difficult places.

  Hannah glared at the dog, then at the sheriff, sniffed back at the investigator until she’d had enough. She told them all that her mother needed to rest and would they please finish up.

  Of course, they were the law, so they only raised their eyebrows in her direction and stayed on course.

  It was only after everyone had finally driven out the gravelly road and the last bit of dust had settled that they realized the fire had gone out. The house was cold, the floor littered with broken glass and splotches of blood, and Abby was hungry and needed her diaper changed.

  They all worked together, setting things to rights. They spoke very little until the kitchen floor was swept, Hannah had scrubbed it on her hands and knees, Sarah set the bread to baking, and Manny and Shep fed the livestock.

  No one except Abby was hungry, a sense of shock permeating the house like a sour odor. They tried to talk about the incident, but the horror was too real, so their voices stilled and became quiet.

  Sarah wondered if it wasn’t the same for all of them. The disbelief cut through their comfort level like the ragged edge of a saw. How could a nice man like Lemuel Short, a sweet, fatherly type, turn from his humanity into this animal? Which one was the real Lemuel Short?

  For Sarah, the hardest part had not been the physical abuse. It was when the children recognized him, the gladness in their eyes as they looked up, only to have their trust so horribly shattered.

  As was her own. Would she ever be able to look on strangers with the same kind of trust as before?

  After she finally laid her head on her pillow, sighing deeply, she held her throbbing wrists, then switched to the opposite side, the side of her face that had not been smacked.

  He just plowed his fist into the side of my face, she thought wryly. Well, just add this one to the long list of new experiences on the plains, this hateful, unforgiving land of drought and cold and sweltering heat and now thieving men turned into monsters.

  She shivered involuntarily. She tried, bravely, to fight these thoughts. How many
days had she put on a fresh, new face to begin another day, the rest of her life projected on a screen by the move to North Dakota?

  How many battles had she won with goodness, faith, and trust in God and mankind? But now, it was time to face the dark visage of reality. She was afraid. So horribly afraid.

  What would keep this incident from being repeated? Couldn’t you blame this endless expanse of dried-out land for producing people like Lemuel? He had told her his story and she had believed him. Not every woman could survive, no matter how deep her faith.

  Allowing these thoughts to inhabit her mind made her feel like a traitor, like someone who betrays their country.

  Somehow, in her heart, admitted to no one and seen by no one, she raised the white flag of surrender. Just go home, return to civilization as we have always known it. But then, there was the Ben Millers and Ike Lapps, the new Stoltzfuses, and the bachelors. Her father and brothers would be coming in spring. Safety in numbers. Or was there?

  She saw only the expression of trust on her children’s faces when she closed her eyes, so she kept them open, watched the stars winking through the gap in the bedroom curtain, rubbed her wrists, and fought the negative thoughts with prayer, until God seemed to be in the room with her, comforting her in her time of greatest need.

  And yet, she wept far into the night, the heaving of her quiet sobs the sound of so many high-plains women before her.

  CHAPTER 21

  The biting winds of winter seemed to intensify every week, a dry cold, as harsh as a saw’s teeth. Into November, December, past Christmas, and there was no snow, only the endless gale winds that swept from the north, scouring the land with their harsh moaning sounds, bending the dry, brittle vegetation, boiling up clouds of cold gray dust that covered every available surface with a fine and cumbersome grit.

  Hands and faces were chapped, dried out with the strength of the arid cold. The cows tore at the haystacks and drank water from the holes Manny chopped in the frozen water tank. The windmill spun and creaked in the cold, forming a swollen river of ice where the tank overflowed.

  Many days were bleak, sunless, without cheer. Mary and Eli hunched over their school work, their heads in their hands propped up by one elbow. The provisions in the pantry ran low, supplemented only by Hannah’s wages from Rocher’s Hardware.

  Wolves howled at night, and the terrifying ripples of sound kept Hannah from restful sleep. She trusted the cows to defend themselves, but the high, primal pitch of the wolves baying sent shivers of unease up her spine.

  They dressed in coats, scarves, worn gloves and boots, rode out past the tank, across the windswept plains, their guns held across their saddle horns. When they came upon the wandering herd, Hannah knew before they counted that they weren’t all present.

  Surely they had defended themselves this winter, if they were capable of defending themselves in the deep snows of the preceding winter.

  They came upon the grisly scene of mutilated calves and cows, not a few, but six carcasses in various stages of mutilation. Hannah’s face showed no emotion, pale as the gray sky, her eyes black daggers of hardened resolve.

  Manny picked up his gun, dismounted, and stood looking down at the remains of a calf, not believing the amount of destruction.

  “Why? Why?” he asked finally.

  Hannah shrugged coldly.

  “Why didn’t they stay around the buildings? Shep would have alerted us to any wolves.”

  He turned away and poked the flopping leg of a dead yearling, his face a mask of pain and anxiety.

  “Wolves couldn’t run in the snow,” Hannah said, her words hard and clipped.

  “You mean last winter?”

  Hannah nodded.

  They counted the cattle. The large, oversized cow, the bull, and three remaining young cows. Five head of cattle.

  “Not much left,” Manny remarked, shaking his head.

  “Enough. I have my job. You’ll have to get one. We have enough. As long as we’re able to keep food on the table, we’ll keep the homestead. We have others, now, Amish brethren to help us through.”

  Manny looked at Hannah. “You said that?” he asked, a small smile on his face.

  “It’s true. They won’t let us starve.”

  They rode back slowly and talked of penning the remaining cows. Wild as deer, especially that old, oversized one. They’d need better horsepower to round them up, then there was no promise they’d stay within the confines of the posts and few strands of barbed wire that enclosed most of the barnyard.

  “It will snow soon,” Manny said, trying to bolster his spirits as well as Hannah’s.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Will you tell Mam, or shall I?” Manny asked, always thinking of his mother’s well-being.

  “You can.”

  Manny told Sarah. Her face registered no surprise, no alarm, nothing. Manny wasn’t sure his mother had heard him correctly, and repeated his words.

  When she looked at him, it was like looking into someone’s eyes where there was no emotion, no feeling, a barren place calloused by too much suffering.

  “Mam!” he said sharply.

  Sarah started, blinked, said yes, the wolves had done them a nasty turn, but perhaps they’d move on, God willing. Words spoken without caring or conviction, only spoken out of necessity.

  The winter months came and went, days marching in slow succession. Firewood was becoming scarce, vegetables rolling around in the bottom of the bin, an ominous sound portending tight, empty stomachs that struck fear in Sarah’s heart.

  She wrote letters questioning her father’s and brothers’ reluctance to commit themselves to a date—sometime in April or May.

  The letter Hannah brought back from town deepened a gnawing unease, almost like an excitement at the idea of surrender.

  Dear Daughter,

  I hope you are all well.

  This letter is written in Jesus’ Name, hoping you can take this news as it is written, in love, to all of you.

  I regret to inform you that our move to North Dakota has been cancelled for the present time. I have other daughters who think it unwise, and since Ben and Elam have taken up a farrier business from Jeremiah Riehl, we have chosen to stay.

  Snow is abundant this year, but milk prices are holding steady, so it is a joy to load the milk cans on the bobsled and take them to town.

  Sarah’s hands shook. She gripped the paper until her knuckles whitened, her dark eyes boring into the words from her thin, white face, her mind refusing to accept this monumental disappointment. She read on.

  I thank you for the check you wrote and sent to me. It is a generous repayment, and I’m glad you are doing well, the cattle thriving.

  Sarah blinked, tried to collect her scattered thoughts, as they raced in paranoid circles. Dat, we aren’t thriving. The cows are dead, torn apart by long, lean wolves of the prairie. Thin, hungry animals that live from day to day on what they can kill, running across a lean and hungry land that shows no mercy to homesteaders.

  She put down the letter, grasped the thin remnants of her old coat around her body, leaned forward, and rocked from side to side, her eyes closed, dry, the absence of tears a testament to the hardened spirit within.

  Snow. Milk. So much rich, creamy milk they hauled it away on a bobsled with Belgians, huge, healthy animals that ate oats and corn and were stabled in a barn made of stone and heavy lumber, painted white, a row of cupolas marching across the peak in perfect symmetry. It was all she had ever known.

  She could smell the heavy cream, feel the smooth sides of the glass butter churn, the slow creak of the iron handle that turned the wooden paddles, the schlomp, schlomp of the agitated cream that solidified into butter.

  A physical longing stabbed through her stomach, but she only clutched her arms more tightly. It was little Abby coming to rest her head on her mother’s knee, that shook her from her reverie. She lifted her head, smiled wanly, gathered Abby in her arms and bent her head over the cold l
ittle form.

  The house was so cold. She was trying to stretch the firewood, hoping to make it last till spring, but without snow, the foundation and the cracks around windows and doors would seep cold and dust particles that moved about the house like a physical discomfort. Woolen socks and cracked leather shoes were not enough to keep toes from numbing and chills from racing across thin shoulders.

  She added a stick of wood to the stove, closing the damper to make it last longer. She longed to open the draft, hear the roaring of the fire, the crackling, leaping flames that devoured the wood and turned the stove top cherry red.

  Hannah spent her days stalking from the house to the barn, a tall, thin cold-wracked pack of anxiety, her dark eyes lifted to the sky, searching for snow, the elusive white moisture that would warm the foundation of the house and replenish the grasses that fed her few remaining cattle.

  Manny rode the old horse, Goat, trying to keep the cows as close to the haystacks as possible, the mean-natured cow, always a threat without a better horse to dodge her belligerent advances. The bull was more stoic, enduring a bit of prodding with aplomb, until the old cow became too agitated, and he’d begin bellowing low and mean, throwing dust up over his shoulder with the strength of a mighty cloven hoof.

  The cold intensified, a strange, dry sub-zero temperature that blackened fingers and toes without warning. Hank Jenkins landed in the hospital in Dorchester, two of his toes partially amputated, they were so badly frozen. Hod said in all his days on the plains, he’d never seen anything like this, as if the clouds withheld every snowflake, every bit of ice that needed to fall.

  There were the church services to look forward to, the fellowship with the Ben Millers and the Ike Lapps, but all that cold, dry winter Sarah could not put her heart into the fledgling community.

  The sermons were preached by the new Elam Stoltzfus, who was not an ordained minister, but since they needed a speaker, he had plenty to say concerning the Bible and the Plain way of life.

  Somehow, the weak singing led by Ben Miller seemed a spinoff of the real thing, that two-toned swell of song that rolled to the ceiling of an Amish house and rolled out the window on the beauty of the notes. It seemed unholy, somehow, the person’s words, thinking himself a gifted speaker when, in reality, he was not.