CHAPTER THREE
The Destroyers
Joe was so weary of body and brain that the things he saw shimmeredbehind a haze that was born of no weather, but in his own mind. He wasdetached from almost everything, a lone being in a lone world, and theonly thread that connected him with anything else was the smooth handleof the ax which he carried in his hand. The ax was real as it could bereal only to one who had just spent eleven hours using it. At the sametime, and while he reeled with fatigue, Joe counted his blessings.
Now the oats were high and the young corn in tassel. The familyvegetable garden was thriving, the hay was not yet ripe enough for thescythe, and there were many more trees to cut on Joe's sixteen acres oftimber. Clearing all sixteen acres was a major task and one that Joedidn't even hope to complete for several years because he could work inthe timber only when there was nothing else to do. However, he intendedto chop and trim many more trees.
He was exhausted, but the restlessness that had possessed him a monthearlier was now gone, and for the present he was contented. Preparingthe land to grow crops and planting them had been hard work. But now itwas finished and when the crops were harvested he would be able to feedhis family and livestock through the winter. All the surplus must besold to satisfy Elias Dorrance. Yet, for the moment Joe harbored nospecial resentment against him. Bankers were necessary, and Elias hadhelped Joe when he needed help.
Carefully, as a man who loves good tools will, Joe hung the ax on itswooden pegs in the tool shed, and then took it down again to test bothbits with his thumb. An ax had to be razor-sharp, actually capable ofshaving, if a man was to do good work with it, and whoever put a toolaway in good shape would find it in the same shape when he needed itagain. Joe found the ax so sharp that he must have honed it afterfelling the last tree. He grinned; he was more tired than he'd thoughtbecause he couldn't remember sharpening the ax.
He leaned against the tool shed's wall, giving himself to the luxury ofdoing nothing at all. He watched Barbara, serene and lovely, goingtoward the pig pen with a pail of swill and he knew a moment's sheerpleasure. He gave no thought to the incongruity of the scene, thatanyone should be able to look graceful while feeding pigs, but felt onlydelight because he saw something lithe and beautiful.
Joe yawned. He had been very wakeful last night. Lying beside Emma, hehad watched the moon wane and the first faint streaks of dawn creep likestealthy thieves out of the sky. Only then had he gone to sleep, andsoon afterward it had been time to get up and go to work again.
He went to the well, drew a bucket of water, and washed his face andhands. Instead of going to the store tonight he would go to bed afterthe evening meal. The empty swill pail in hand, Barbara came to standbeside him and her slim figure was bent slightly backward, as though bya mysterious wind created by her own spirit.
She said, "You look tired."
"Now don't you fret your head about me!"
She smiled. "I will if I want to. How did it go today?"
"Good enough. How are the pigs?"
"Eleanor," Barbara said seriously, "keeps shoving Horace out of thetrough. She won't let him eat."
Joe said dryly, "Eleanor has the manners of a pig, huh?"
She laughed, and Joe looked at her red-stained fingers. He knew withoutbeing told that Barbara, and probably all the rest except the babies,Alfred and Carlyle, had spent at least a part of their day gatheringwild berries. Plucking and preserving wild fruit was a job the womenfolk and youngsters could do, and it was inevitable as summer itself.Joe fell back on a stock question,
"Where's Tad?"
"He went off in the woods by himself."
"Didn't he help you?"
"Oh yes. Mother made him."
Joe grinned inwardly. Emma seldom raised her voice to any of theyoungsters and she never struck any of them. But somehow she managedprompt and unquestioning obedience to any order she issued, and that wasmore than Joe could do. There was about his wife a mysterious forcewhich was always recognizable, but which Joe could not explain. It wasstrange, he reflected in passing, that this force did not carry overinto anything outside the immediate family. It was strange that thethought of leaving the house should be so fearsome when in otherrespects Emma was so sure of herself. But he brushed the thought aside,as he had brushed it aside each time it came to plague him.
Joe entered the house and kissed Emma, and for the moment his wearinesslifted. He wrinkled his nose.
"Something smells good!"
"Raspberry preserves. We'll try some tomorrow, but we can't now becauseit isn't done. We found good picking; some of those berries were as bigas my thumb."
A black kettle in which simmered the fruits gathered that day was pushedtoward the back of the stove. Spicy odors filled the room, and Joe knewthat, when snow lay deep on the ground, Emma would bring her jams,jellies and preserves from the shelves where she kept them and theywould be a little bit of the summer back again. Joe remembered thedelights of winter morning feasts when all had spread pancakes a quarterinch thick with jam, and he smacked his lips.
The four younger children, their hands stained like Barbara's, rushedtoward him and he braced himself to meet their charge. The youngstershadn't anyone except one another to play with and they always lookedforward to his arrival. He plumbed his brain for a story to tell them ora little play to act out. Then Emma turned from the stove and spoke tothe children:
"Your horses are trampling everything in the house and I won't have it.Tie them up again."
The happy youngsters returned to the game, obviously a game of horsesthat they had been playing, and Joe felt a swelling gratitude. It wouldbe nice to rest, and Emma had known it. At the same time he felt a vastadmiration for his wife; she had relieved him of any more responsibilitywithout offending the children. It went to prove all over again what Joehad always suspected; for all their supposed fragility, and despite thefact that they were allegedly the weaker sex, women had strength andpower about which men knew nothing. Strength and power, that is, when itcame to dealing with their children. Regarding other things, though,such as making a sensible move in a sensible direction--but again hebrushed the thought aside. He sank into a chair, and with a real effortmanaged to keep from going to sleep.
"How was it today?" Emma asked.
"I had a good day."
All things considered, he had had a good day. There was much about axwork that he enjoyed. An ax in the hands of a man who knew how to use itceased to be a mere tool and became a precision instrument. To an axman, an ax was much like a good rifle to a hunter.
"Are you going to cut more trees?" Emma asked.
"I'll work in the timber until the hay needs cutting."
That was all they said but that was all they had to say because the restfell into a precise pattern. When the trees were felled and trimmed somewould be split into rails for rail fences and the rest used forfirewood. As soon as snow eliminated the danger of forest fire the brushwould be burned. That was always a minor festival. The whole familyturned out for the brush burning. The children watched, fascinated,while leaping flames climbed skyward through crackling branches. Then,while Joe raked the unburned branches together and fired them, Tad andbaby Emma built a snow man or a snow fort for the delectation of therest. It usually ended with Emma and Barbara serving a lunch besidestill-glowing coals and Joe always saved enough branches so everyonecould have a dry seat.
Emma went to the door and called "Tad!" and as though the eight-year-oldwere on some invisible leash that attached himself to his mother, heappeared out of the lowering night. His seal-sleek hair proved that hehad already washed at the well, but no mere water could suffice for Tadnow. His face and arms were laced with deep gashes from which blood wasagain beginning to ooze, and there were fang marks on his upperforearms.
Joe said in astonishment, "What the dickens happened to you?"
"I caught a wildcat!" Tad said gleefully. "Caught him right in a snare Iset myself!"
"Don't you know better than to fool arou
nd with wildcats?"
"It's only a little one," Tad said, as though that explained everything."Not hardly big enough to chew anything yet. Got him in the barn, Ihave. I'm goin' to tame him."
"Get rid of him," Joe ordered.
"Aw, Pa!"
Joe was inflexible, "Get rid of him now! One thing we don't need aroundhere, it's a wildcat!"
He caught up a lantern, lighted it, and with Tad trotting protesting athis heels, stamped out to the barn. The wildcat had already seen to itsown liberation. Tad had put him in one of the mules' feed boxes, coveredit with a board, and weighted the board with a rock. The imprisoned cathad worked the board free and slipped away.
"Blast his ornery hide!" Tad ejaculated.
Joe said sternly, "What's that you said?"
"You say it."
"So you can too, huh? Get this, don't let me ever again hear you sayanything that even sounds like a cuss word. And no more wildcats."
"It was only a little one."
"You heard me!"
Tad's face was stubborn, a little sullen. For a moment he said nothingand Joe repeated,
"You heard me!"
"Yes, Pa."
Joe lighted their way back to the house, blew the lantern out before heentered and hung it on a wooden peg. The gesture was automatic, andbrought about by a lifetime of necessarily frugal living. One neverstinted his family, himself, or his animals, in that order, on food. Butone never wasted anything at all that cost money. Though thecircuit-riding Reverend Haines often thundered to those of his flock wholived in Tenney's Crossing that money was the root of all evil, Joe hadnever believed that. Money was simply the hardest of all things to comeby.
For once hardly savoring the food--and Emma had an almost magic touchwith the plainest of viands--Joe ate because it was necessary to eat.Only vaguely was he aware of Barbara's keeping a watchful eye on thechattering younger children; of Tad, sullenly disappointed and stillrebellious but not letting that interfere with his always prodigiousappetite. He seemed closest to Emma, in whom everything else alwaysseemed to center, and he knew that she was watching him while sheworried about him. Before very long he would be asleep.
The youngsters slid from their chairs and went back to the bits ofstring they had been playing with. Obviously, for the time being, Emma'ssadirons were horses because they were all tied at different placesaround the room. They wouldn't need him tonight, and Joe excusedhimself.
"Reckon I'll go see if the sky's still in place."
He rose from the table and stepped outside into the pleasant summernight. There was only blackness, unrelieved by any hint of moon or starlight. Tad's dog came to wag a welcoming tail and sniff, and even whileJoe petted the dog he thought that Mike wouldn't herd stock and hewouldn't hunt except with Tad. Therefore, in a land where everything hadto earn its keep, he was useless. But young ones had to have somethingand Tad liked his pet largely, Joe suspected, because Mike could whipany other dog, or any other two dogs, in the whole country.
Joe breathed his fill of the night air, went back into the house, andfor a few moments idly watched his four younger children at their play.Emma and Barbara were doing the dishes and, with a trace of sullennessstill lingering about him, Tad sat at the table cutting a new sheath forhis knife. Joe leaned against the door jamb and drowsed for a second. Heseemed to be back in Tenney's store, listening to tales of unlimitedland and unlimited opportunity in the west, and he saw his children withthose opportunities before them. Joe shook himself awake.
He felt numb with fatigue as he took off his clothes and methodicallyhung them up. Though there were nights when he liked to stay late withthe men at Tenney's store, tonight sleep was more inviting. But for afew minutes he lay wide awake and he knitted his brows because he wastroubled about something. However, it was nothing he could clearlydefine and after a while Joe forced it from his mind. As soon as he did,he fell into a sound slumber. When he awakened, gray dawn again lingeredbehind the curtains with which Emma had draped the windows. Not foranother three quarters of an hour would the rising sun change the grayto gold, and for a few moments Joe knew sheer contentment. Restfulslumber had driven away the exhaustion and physical aches of the nightbefore. Beside him, Emma still slept soundly.
Then, out in the lightening morning, Tad's dog barked. Emma came slowlyawake, and turned to smile at him.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, darling."
He moved a little nearer, feeling the warmth of her body against his.Joe remembered his youth and bachelor days as a somewhat fruitlessperiod, and he had not reached fulfillment until his marriage. Theirlife had never been easy. But it had always been good and this was oneof the best parts of every day. For a little while they could betogether in complete idleness, each happy because the other was near.They were rested and refreshed, ready to cope with the problems, big andsmall, that the day might bring. But in the morning, just before theyarose, the big problems seemed small, and the small ones trifling.
"What's the dog barking at?" Emma asked drowsily.
"He's probably found a varmint out in the field. I'll go see. You rest awhile yet."
Joe slipped out of bed, stretched luxuriously, stripped off his nightshirt and put on his clothes. He went to the door, swung it open andstared stupidly at what he saw.
A rangy black steer stood in the center of the trampled corn patch,chewing placidly on a stalk of corn that projected like a green stickfrom its mouth. A herd of varicolored cows and steers were foraginglistlessly or switching tails in what remained of the oat field. Thevegetable garden lay in ruins. Though most of the cattle had filledtheir stomachs and were now contented to digest the rich fare they hadeaten, a few calves and yearlings were still cropping eagerly atanything green that remained.
Joe's immediate reaction was a vast weakness, as though his body were nolonger a solid thing but a liquid mass. He wilted like a melting candle,everything that had gone to make him suddenly dissolved, and only thefeeble flame of a sputtering wick remained to prove that there ever hadbeen anything else. Then he braced himself and fought back.
His whole life had been a struggle, with the odds tremendously againsthim. He'd been close to the breaking point only a month ago, when thedesire to go west had swept around him like a flame, and he'd beenforced to blot it out and forget it. Forgetting it had left himcuriously empty and deflated. But he'd pulled himself together andknuckled down to the job of making this crop a good one. Now the croplay before him, destroyed. A seething anger began slowly to gather inJoe's chest, and he held on to the doorframe to steady himself.
Emma appeared at his shoulder, and when he looked at her Joe saw thather face was pale. She said nothing but her comforting arm slipped abouthim. Joe said inanely,
"They're Pete Domley's cattle."
"I know."
Joe exploded, "I'll--!"
He wheeled, went back into the bedroom, and took the rifle from the pegswhere he had hung it. His brain was on fire, so that priming and loadingthe weapon were mechanical functions which he knew nothing about butwhich he did well because he had done them so often. Not seeing anythingelse, aware only that destroyers had come to take that which rightlybelonged to Joe's family, he leaned against the door jamb and tookcareful aim at the black steer. His finger tightened on the trigger whenEmma's voice cut through the red mists that seethed in his brain.
"No, Joe!"
She looked almost ill, but there was desperation in her words that wasfar more effective than any physical barrier. She spoke again.
"It is not the way."
The red rage that flamed in his brain burned less hotly. He lowered thegun so that its stock rested on the floor, and looked from her to thedestroying cattle. Then sanity reasserted itself. He put the rifle backon its pegs and said dully,
"I'll drive them away."
Joe strode toward the cattle with Tad's dog at his heels. He was wellaware that it was futile to drive the raiders away for there was no moredamage to be done. Yet he knew that the c
attle did not belong where theywere, and since there was no one else to chase them, he must.
The rangy black steer in the corn patch looked at him with mildlysurprised eyes as Joe approached. He caught up a fallen corn stalk,slashed viciously at the animal's rump, and the steer galloped off tojoin those in the oat field. A blocky white and black cow with a calf ather heels bolted toward the end of the field and the rest followed. Theycrowded clumsily through the hedge that marked the boundary of Joe'sland and went back into their pasture. There they all stopped to look,as though telling him that they knew they'd done wrong but informing himthat they had a right to be where they were. When Joe did not pursuethem any farther, the cattle wandered toward their water hole and Joenoted mechanically that there were many more than there had been. Petehad several herds which he kept in different pastures. Probably, guidedby the mysterious senses which animals possess and which no man canexplain, one or more of the other herds had come to join the cattle Petekept here and together they had organized the raid.
Joe tossed his head furiously, and the veins in his head and neck wereso taut that they stood out and throbbed visibly. The old restlessnessreturned with a force so overwhelming that it was almost impossible toresist it. He felt himself grow huge, and it seemed that if he took astep in one direction he would be right among the marauding cattle. Astep in the other direction would be sure to bring him face to face withElias Dorrance. There was no place to take his family where they wouldnot be hemmed in and preyed upon by something. Unaccountably he thoughtof that night when he had walked to Tenney's store and looked at thestars that never shouldered each other aside. Joe voiced his explosivethoughts to the startled dog:
"This place is just too blasted small!"
The dog at his heels, Joe walked back to the house. Crushingdisappointment was a luxury, and he had never been able to affordluxuries. And the past was forever lost, and now this belonged to thepast. The fields could be plowed and planted again, and with luck thecrops would mature before frost killed them.
Joe looked at Emma, still standing mutely in the doorway, and a hotknife turned in his heart. She seemed, with her eyes, to be asking himfor forgiveness. If they'd gone west when he wanted to go, theywouldn't be faced now with the destruction of the whole summer's work.He could see in Emma's eyes the fear that things would get even worsethan they were, that the new crop that Joe would start to plant nowmight be lost just as the present crop was already lost, and that theywould go into the winter with no money, no feed for the animals, noprovisions for the family.
He groped for words to comfort her, and could think of only,
"I chased them. Everything's all right now."
"I--I'm terribly sorry, Joe." Her voice trembled.
"Now don't you go fretting your head! I'll get new crops in!"
She said uncertainly, "It's very late for new crops."
He forced what he hoped was a careless laugh, and wished he hadn't doneso because she knew it was forced. Joe berated himself silently. Aboveall he wanted to soothe, to spare her, and there was no way. Theircrops, their livelihood, was gone. It was more than a serious situation.It was a desperate one and she knew it as well as he did, but he tried.
"Now just don't you fret. Everything's all right."
She said, "Don't tell me that, Joe."
Though it was morning, with the day scarcely started, she turned tiredlyto the stove. Joe sat down to await the meal she would give him. Thiswas summer. Their ham, bacon, sausage, and other smoked meats, had longsince been exhausted. Not until the advancing season brought weathercold enough to keep meat would they have any except the wild things theyshot. Expertly, Emma mixed milk with eggs and scrambled them in askillet. She laid slices of homemade bread on the stove until theytoasted, and lathered the toast thickly with home-churned butter.
Flushed with sleep, Barbara emerged from the room where she slept withher sister and went outside to the well. When she came back, freshlywashed, she had seen the havoc wrought by the cows. She looked at hermother's face, and at her father's, and was tactfully silent. She wasyoung and healthy, and, in spite of the disaster, she looked radiant,and for some reason that he could not explain, Joe felt better.Elemental himself, he thought of elemental things. Though he could nothave explained it, part of the awe Barbara inspired in him sprang fromthe fact that she was a lovely young woman in whom, symbolically, allthe hope of the future lay. Certainly, without her, there could be nofuture. Joe started eating the heaping plate of scrambled eggs and toastthat Emma gave him, and he was half through his meal when there was atimid knock at the door.
Joe said, "Come in."
The door opened and Pete Domley stood framed within it. Somehow heseemed to have shrunk to half his small stature, as though he were adwarf that had come begging. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, andblue bags were pendant beneath them. Through the open door, Joe caught aglimpse of the white horse Pete had ridden here. For a second Joe'sanger flared anew; if Pete had watched his cattle the crops would not beruined. Pity for this small man who was usually as aggressive as abantam rooster, but who now was so abject, stole Joe's anger. He said,
"Have some breakfast, Pete."
Pete came through the door, a slow and tired man. He said, "LanceTrevelyan told me last night they'd gone, Joe. They left their pastureon Twoaday Crick and just went. You can't always figure what critterswill do."
Joe said, "I know."
"I thought sure," Pete said, "that they'd head for the high pasturesabove Twoaday. I looked there until almost sun-up."
"So?"
"So I'll pay you, Joe. You or Elias Dorrance, whichever way you wantit."
Joe repeated, "Have some breakfast, Pete."
Pete sat down and Emma served him. Joe ate without speaking, and hewatched Pete devour his breakfast listlessly. Beef in St. Louis broughtfantastic prices, and probably in eastern cities it brought prices evenmore fabulous. Joe didn't know. He did know that the man who raised thatbeef on the hoof, and who was the primary provider of the markets,didn't get the most money. Pete, with seven young ones of his own,worked hard. Often he worked much for very little return.
Besides, Pete had ridden all night to find his missing cattle. Finallyrealizing the truth, he must have looked for them at other farms beforehe came to see Joe. No man could possibly ask more than that from anyother man, and who knew what a fool steer would decide to do? The most aperson looking for cattle in the black of night could do was guess, andif the guess went wrong, what then? Pete Domley hadn't eaten or trampledJoe's oats, corn, and vegetables. Pete's cattle had. There was, Joefelt, no more sense in crucifying Pete than there had been in nailingChrist to the Cross. Pete finished his breakfast, and after a moment'ssilence he said,
"Who'll I pay, Joe? You or Elias?"
"Neither, Pete."
Pete said stubbornly, "What's right is right."
"Look, you buy me some more seed and let it go at that."
Pete opened surprised eyes. "You going to plant again?"
"What else?"
"Well--You know where I live and the money will be there when you go toplant."
Pete mounted his tired horse and rode homeward. Moodily, with mingledpity and sadness, Joe watched him go. Pete wasn't really to blame. Buthe felt that he was. He had, however unwittingly, dealt mortal injury tohis very good friend and that thought would forever haunt him.
Joe wandered out to his own ravaged fields, and as soon as he was inthem he confirmed what he had known anyway. In the oat patch, a fewbruised stalks strove valiantly to raise battered heads toward the sun.The corn was ruined and the vegetable garden was gone. What remained wasnot one twentieth of what was needed.
Joe caught the mules and evaded their striking feet and slicing teeth ashe fought them into harness. Having run free for four days, the muleswere not inclined to work again. But they had to work, for the man whocommanded them was stronger than they. They plunged and reared when theharness was buckled about them, and kicked and squealed when they w
ereonce fastened to the plow. That was all they could do.
Joe guided the plow down the first long, straight furrow, and even as hedid he assured himself that the second crop of oats would be better thanthe first for the second would feed on the bodies of the first. Joereversed his mutinous team to start the second furrow, and when he cameto the end it seemed, quite unaccountably, that the day should also beended. Then he looked at the scarcely risen sun and knew that it had notyet started.
He steered the mules down another furrow, and angered more at himselfthan at them, jerked hard on the reins. The plow had gone a bit to oneside, so that instead of being in rhythm with all the rest, the furrowcurved away from them. Joe stopped and passed a hand over his sweatingforehead. Twenty years or more ago his father had whipped himunmercifully for plowing a crooked furrow. From then until now he hadnever plowed one.
Joe turned the mules and straightened the furrow so that it matched therest. From that time on, in order not to repeat the error, he had towatch himself and that made plowing twice the work. With an exhaustionequal to--maybe greater than--last night's, Joe saw the first longshadows of evening.
For the first time, rather than providing a refuge from problems, hishouse seemed to admit them with him. There was no peace and none of thecalm that paid for a day's work. When dinner was over, the almostelectric restlessness that tormented him mounted to superchargedheights.
"Do you know what?" he said fiercely, "I wish we could go to a goodhoedown tonight! A real rip-snorter with everything in it!"
"Go down to the store and find out when the next one is and where," Emmaurged. "I wouldn't mind going to a party myself."
Joe walked down the path toward the store, and in his mind, as hewalked, he tried to create some of the camaraderie he would know when hereached it. He could not.
The sky might as well have been nonexistent, and he was scarcelyconscious of the cool night air fanning his cheek. _It was not Eliasalone. It was not his ruined crops alone. It was more that he couldn'tstretch without bumping someone else's ribs._ Unless a person had enoughmoney to start with, or was exceptionally lucky, he was lost here. Itwas not the way to live and certainly it was not the way for his familyto live. Mechanically Joe strode toward the store and he was on thepoint of entering when a man moved toward him.
"Hi, Joe," Elias Dorrance said.
"Hi."
"I heard," said the other, "that you lost your crops."
Joe waited an interminable moment, until it occurred to him that, bynow, everyone must have heard it. Then he said, "That's right."
Elias Dorrance asked, "What will you do now?"
"Plant more crops."
"The frost will get them."
"That's a chance I take."
"I'm sorry," Elias said. "I'm really sorry, and I know you're worriedabout me. You don't have to worry. You're a good farmer and a man ofyour word, and you're honest. I'll take another note until next fall."
"On what?" Joe asked.
Elias Dorrance's shrug was half seen in the night. "Your mules, yourharness, your wagon, your livestock, your household goods. You can coverit."
For a moment Joe stood blankly, the offer not even registering. Then aslow anger that mounted by leaps and bounds grew within him.
He'd been overwhelmed when Emma gave him the $600 and told him that, atlast, he could have his farm. He still could not understand how she hadsaved such a vast sum; Joe had never earned $600 in any one year. Butevery penny of it, everything they had, represented the combined sweatand toil, and almost the life's blood, of Emma and himself. Joe thoughtof Nick Johnson.
He, too, had had a farm financed by Elias and he'd lost a crop. The nextyear he lost another, and Elias had taken everything except the clothesthe Johnsons wore on their backs. Now hopeless and defeated, NickJohnson was again a hired man and his courage was so broken that henever would be anything else. Joe thought of Emma's cherished householdgoods, the few things his children owned, of the mules, the cows,everything upon which Elias had no claim. For a moment he had a savageurge to smash his fist into the banker's face, and Elias must havesensed it for he took a backward step. Joe bit his words off and spatthem out,
"Elias, you can take a long running jump into the nearest duck pond."
Without looking back and without entering the store, he turned andstrode through the darkness toward his house. A man who turned his backon the land almost turned his back on God too. But one who riskedeverything his family had was not a man at all. Joe entered the house.Emma was sewing at the table and she looked up, and concern flooded hereyes.
"Was there nobody at the store?"
"I didn't go. I met Elias."
Emma waited expectantly. For a short space Joe strode up and down thefloor. Then he turned to face her.
"Elias offered to carry us another year. All he wants is a mortgage oneverything that isn't already mortgaged to him."
Emma gaped, and Joe said quickly, "I told him to--I told him no."
She half rose out of her chair. "Joe, maybe you should have--"
"No!" he interrupted almost fiercely. "I won't do it! We're in debt asfar as we're ever going to be! Some things will remain ours!"
There was a short silence while both pursued their own thoughts. Emmaturned a worried face to him.
"Do you think you can make another crop?"
Joe looked at Emma and then he looked beyond her. Outside the night wasblack, but in his mind's eye he could clearly see the ravaged fields. Inhis muscles he could feel the ache of the plowing and the planting ofthe new crop. In the pit of his stomach he could already feel the painand rage that he would feel if the new crop should be destroyed byfrost.
Emma waited, and then she got to her feet with an anxious haste. "PeteDomley will pay for the seed, Joe. Barbara and I can help with theplanting."
Now suddenly he didn't want to comfort her any more, nor to bolster upher hopes about the new crop. This was a time for facing facts.
"Emma," he said, and his lips felt dry and tight with the effort tocontrol himself. "Emma, there's free land for the taking in the west."
She drew back as though she had been slapped. "That's a dream, Joe. Abright dream."
"It's not a dream," he said. "It's real land, and real people are goingout there to live on it."
She clasped her hands in front of her, and he saw that they weretrembling. Yet he made no move to go to her.
"We can't do it," she said. "Don't you see we can't do it? We've got sixchildren to think about."
"Other people are doing it with children," he said doggedly.
"You can't make me do it!" she said wildly. "I'm not going to leave thishouse--not ever. We'll make out somehow. If need be, Pete Domley willtake you on for a year--he owes you that after what happened."
The mighty storm that had been brewing in him broke now, and he lashedout at her. "I'm not going to be a hired man again, do you hear! Ifinished with that, and I'm not going back to it!"
His voice, harsh and loud, shattered Emma's self-control. She had alwaysknown that Joe could be angry, but never before had his anger beendirected against herself. She went white, swayed for a moment, and thenwent unsteadily to the window. She stood clinging to the sill, staringout into the blackness.
He watched her in silence. Then he went to her, turned her around andmade her look at him.
"Emma," he said through the pain in his throat. "You don't want me to bea hired man again, do you, Emma?"
Her eyes filled with tears and she tried to speak. No sound came, butshe shook her head, No.
His voice grew humble now. He was deeply puzzled, and he begged her foran answer that he could understand. "Why are you so much against thewest? Tell me truly. Tell me."
She found her voice. "I'm not against the west. I'm against leaving ourhome. I want to stay here. I--I hoped we could live here forever. I--I'mafraid, Joe."
He scowled, torn and uncertain.
"You've never been afraid before, Emma. We've been through a
lottogether, a lot of struggle and a lot of worry. We worried when babyEmma was sick, and when Tad fell out of the tree. It's always come outall right."
"That was different," she stammered. "We--we were here among our ownpeople. If we needed help, we could get help."
"Emma," he whispered. "Emma--I can take care of you. I can take care ofthe children."
She clutched him, buried her face in his neck.
"Emma," he said, "when we left your father, you were worried then, butyou faced up to it, and life was much better afterward."
"We were younger then," she said. "Oh, Joe--we were much younger, and wehad only Barbara. Now we've got six! Think of it, Joe! Six children, outin the wilderness!"
He forced her away from him. With his hand under her chin he forced herto look at him again. From the depths of his restless soul, from thecenter of his self, his yearning for an independent life poured outthrough his eyes and entreated her to understand him. His voice washoarse with the intensity of his longing.
"Emma," he said. "I can take care of you. Trust me, dearest."
Something dissolved inside of her. She could not deny him any longer. Hewas begging her for his freedom to be his own man. He was begging herfor space to grow in, and for their children to grow in. He was beggingher to be brave for his sake, so that he could fulfill his deepestneeds. Whatever her misgivings, whatever her terror, she must go withhim into the unknown.
She put her hands on his shoulders and looked squarely into his eyes. "Ido trust you, Joe," she said quietly. "We'll go west. We'll go just assoon as we can get ready."