In the Face of Danger (14 page)

The sun had come out, and its glare on the snow blinded her for a moment. She stood still in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the brightness. She could see her deep tracks in the snow, but they were now crisscrossed by other sets of tracks. Puzzled, she stared at the trampled area. The animal—or animals, because there were rows of tracks that looked as though they wound around and around the barn—had made these marks while she was inside. The prints were the size of large dog paws. Where would dogs have come from?

To her right she heard a snuffling sound. There, standing just a few feet away, were two large gray prairie wolves. Their eyes gleamed yellow as they stared at her without blinking, and their lips were parted, tongues lolling to one side. Breath rose from their nostrils in wisps of steam.

For one heart-stopping moment Megan stared back at the wolves, unable to move, unable to look away. Then one of them shifted a paw just a fraction of an inch. Its chest muscles tensed and its shoulders lowered, and Megan realized that it was getting ready to spring. With a yelp of terror, she leapt back into the barn, set down the pail so hard that the milk sloshed over the side, and slammed the door shut.

Panting and shaking, Megan tried to think. She couldn’t stay in the barn. She had to get back to the house. Emma would be up by now, making breakfast, expecting her to return soon. If she didn’t appear, then Emma would come out looking for her, and the wolves would be waiting. No!

She searched the contents of the barn for some sort of protection, wishing with all her heart that she had the Henry rifle with her.
Don’t waste time wishing for things that can’t be
, Megan scolded herself.
Think! What is there here at hand that can help you?

Her glance fell on the pitchfork, the hoe, and the metal rake, and for a moment she was hopeful. But she shook her head. Those wolves were huge animals and most probably very hungry. She wouldn’t be strong enough to beat them off with a pitchfork. They could circle in and … She shuddered. They wouldn’t be afraid of a mere pitchfork.

What
would
they fear? On the chest against the wall stood the lantern where she had left it, and with a sigh of relief she knew what she could do.

As the wolves snuffled at the door and the animals in the barn moved about uneasily, Megan found a cloth feed sack, and wrapped it tightly around the metal end of the hoe. Over the cloth she wrapped large clumps of hay, until the hoe looked like a fat, gigantic broom. Then, carefully, she dribbled oil from the lantern onto the hay.

She leaned against the door, her heart thumping loudly. She could still hear the wolves scratching and growling on the other side. She had to get them away from the door!

Megan pounded on the door with all her might, hoping that would startle them for an instant. Then, with flint
and steel, she set fire to the oil on the hay and threw the door wide, poking the flaming brand outside.

The wolves backed off a few feet, wary of the fire. “Yaaah!” Megan yelled at them. Waving the brand at them with her right hand, she reached back with her left, pulled the door shut, and dropped the beam across it. Now the animals would be safe inside the barn, but she was unprotected, with only the fiery stick between herself and the hungry wolves. She gasped in air so cold that her lungs hurt and yelled, “Emma!”

As she struggled through the snow toward the house, holding the rope with one hand, the wolves moved close enough so that she could see the reflection of the fire in their eyes. The hay disappeared in a final crackle, flinging burning speckles upon the snow, but the cloth still burned steadily, and the pole itself had ignited. The wolves stayed just out of range of the flickers of flame, but they moved more easily in the heavy snow than Megan could.

Megan felt as though she were in a nightmare. She tried to hurry, but her feet sank with each step, and if it hadn’t been for her grasp on the rope, she would have fallen. When she faltered, one of the wolves darted toward her, coming low to snap and snarl, while the other menaced her from the other side. With a yell, Megan thrust the burning pole at them, swinging it wildly, and they jumped back, their red tongues hanging out and their sharp teeth gleaming.

The fire on the pole was down to a dull glow. It would soon go out. She would never reach the house. “Emma!” Megan screamed again.

“I’m here. Don’t move!” she heard Emma call.

A loud crack shattered the air. The wolf nearest to
Megan leapt upward, twisted, and fell on its side, its blood a dark red blot melting into the snow.

“Come, Megan! Hurry!” Emma shouted.

Megan looked up. Emma was standing in the doorway, sighting along the Henry rifle toward the second wolf. Megan didn’t stop to watch. With all her strength she hurled herself through the snow toward the house. As she staggered past Emma and over the doorsill, the gun exploded a second time, so close that the sound made her ears ring.

Emma half-fell inside and slammed the door as Megan pulled down the bar. They clung together, trembling, tears mingling and arms tightly wrapped around each other.

After a long moment they both began talking at once.

“I was afraid you’d come outside.”

“I heard you cry out and saw through the window what was going on.”

“I didn’t know you were there with the rifle.”

“I didn’t want to distract you. If you’d looked up before I had a clear shot—”

“I was so frightened! What if the fire had burned out too fast?”

“Dear little Megan, you were very brave.”

“Brave? I can’t stop shaking!”

Emma pulled Megan’s head to rest on her shoulder and soothed her, stroking her hair back from her forehead. “There may be more wolves out there, hungry enough to try desperate measures, or those two may have been lost from their pack, looking for food on their own. We don’t know, so we’ll stay safely inside.”

Megan relaxed, loving the closeness with Emma, but suddenly a thought struck her and she pulled away. “Oh, the milk!” she cried. “I forgot it. I’ll go back and get it.”

As Emma broke into laughter, Megan realized what she had said and clapped her hands to her cheeks. The two of them rocked back and forth, laughing away the last of their fear.

Emma wiped her eyes and said, “Time to get busy, Megan. There’s much to be done before Ben gets home, and he’ll head this way as soon as the road is passable.”

For the rest of the day, as they cleaned and cooked and sewed, both Megan and Emma avoided looking outside in the direction of the barn. At night, when the house was dark and she could hear wolves howling in the distance, Megan tossed until her bed was a rumpled mess, unable to fall asleep.

Ben came home early in the afternoon of the next day. Megan and Emma told him the story, their words spilling over each other.

Ben hugged them both. “What bad luck that I was away from you at a time like this!”

Bad luck? Until he said that, Megan hadn’t thought of the old woman. Of couse, this was more of the gypsy’s work. Megan looked away, unable to meet Ben’s eyes. What trouble and sorrow would the curse next bring?

T
O
M
EGAN’S SURPRISE
the snow began to melt quickly, leaving shrunken, grayed drifts where the sun couldn’t reach. In the open areas, battered clumps of blackened grass and hard-packed ground mingled with patches of snow.

Ben had gone to check on the Haskills the day after he returned home. He came back to report to Emma and Megan that the Haskill home was so filled with misery he could hardly wait to leave.

“Poor Ada’s had some hard surprises,” Emma said. “First the house, and now the blizzard. But I think she’ll come around. I’ll bake some gingerbread and Megan can take it to her.” She looked at the puppies, in the new box with higher sides where Ben had moved them. “In two or three weeks Dick will be ready to move to a new home. A puppy to love will do wonders for Ada.”

Megan had her doubts about that and was more inclined to pity Dick than Mrs. Haskill, but she remembered what Emma had said about women on the prairie needing one another’s support and kept her thoughts to herself.

When she carried the basket of hot gingerbread to the Haskills’, Megan was surprised to find the room cluttered and the dishes unwashed. Clothes lay on the floor, and the bed was a tangle. For a few moments Mrs. Haskill stared through Megan as though she couldn’t place her. Then she brushed back the loose, stringy wisps of hair that had escaped from the bun at the back of her neck and said to Megan, “Would you like to sit down?”

Wishing she could say, “No, thank you,” and escape for home, Megan put the gingerbread on the table, shoving aside two tin plates with dried food on them to make room. She took off her coat, cap, and gloves and dutifully sat on one of the slatted chairs near the stove, opposite Mrs. Haskill.

Mrs. Haskill stared into space, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and said nothing. Megan, her nose itching uncomfortably from the smoke and the stale, sour air in the room, finally asked, “Wouldn’t you like a piece of gingerbread? Emma baked it, and it’s very good.”

As though she hadn’t heard Megan, Mrs. Haskill mumbled, “No one should have to live like this.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Browder did,” Megan said. “They lived in a dugout until their farm began to prosper. Then they were able to build their house. Now they use their old dugout as a root cellar and a place to hide when the spring tornadoes come.”

Mrs. Haskill lifted her head and stared at Megan. “Tornadoes?”

Oh, no! She’d done it again, and this time she hadn’t meant to.

Megan hopped to her feet. “Let me bring you some gingerbread. It’s still warm. Emma sent it right from the oven.” She looked into the cupboard but couldn’t find a
single clean dish, so she took a gingerbread square from the basket and placed it on the palm of Mrs. Haskill’s left hand.

“I hadn’t bargained on this.” Mrs. Haskill’s voice was a dull whisper.

“I couldn’t find a plate,” Megan began to explain.

But Mrs. Haskill interrupted. “It’s not fair. I’m used to a better life,” and Megan realized that the woman hadn’t even noticed the gingerbread she was holding.

There was no point in trying to make conversation with Mrs. Haskill, so Megan set to work. There was a full basket of wood and dried cow chips next to the stove, so she opened the iron lid and added enough fuel to stir up a good-size fire. Apparently Mr. Haskill had brought in fresh water, because the crock was full. She ladled some into the kettle and set it on the stove. While she waited for the water to come to a boil, she made the bed and picked up the clothes from the floor. They needed to be washed, but that was an all-day job she wasn’t ready to tackle. Megan swept and tidied, and when the water was hot enough she poured some into a large pan, added a little cold water, and began to wash the dishes.

She washed and dried a tin cup first, hunted through the cupboard until she found some of Emma’s herbal tea, and prepared a steaming cup for Mrs. Haskill. “Here,” she said, placing the cup on the table next to Mrs. Haskill’s chair. “Eat your gingerbread and drink your tea. You’ll feel much better.”

As Mrs. Haskill mechanically obeyed, Megan went back to washing the dishes. Before long they’d been put away, and the table had been scrubbed. At last the room looked the way it was supposed to. Mrs. Haskill had drunk the tea and eaten every crumb of her piece of gingerbread, and now even she looked better. There was more color
in her cheeks, and she actually turned to Megan as though she saw her.

“Please tell Mrs. Browder that her gingerbread was quite satisfactory,” Mrs. Haskill said.

“Quite satisfactory!” Megan almost choked on the words.

“Yes. Considering the rustic conditions and poor choice of ingredients she has to work with, Mrs. Browder has managed to make her gingerbread fairly tasty.” She nodded. “Please convey my gratitude.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Megan mumbled. She waited for Mrs. Haskill to notice the changed condition of her house, but Mrs. Haskill merely said, “I mustn’t keep you from your chores. I’m sorry you didn’t have time to stay for tea.”

Megan hurried into her coat, buttoning it askew but unwilling to stop and rebutton it. Jamming on her cap and gloves, she escaped from the Haskill house and ran almost all the way home.

Back in the Browders’ kitchen, Megan flung herself into the nearest chair, gulping for breath.

Emma hurried to her side. “Is something wrong, Megan?”

“I ran,” Megan managed to gasp.

One of Emma’s eyebrows rose as she stared at Megan questioningly. “Are you all right?”

Megan nodded, breathing more easily now. “It’s cold and clear and a nice day for running.” She took off her coat, stuffing the cap and gloves into the pockets, and hung it on the coat rack.

“Tell me about the Haskills,” Emma said.

“Mr. Haskill wasn’t at the house,” Megan said, “so I didn’t see him. Mrs. Haskill ate a piece of your gingerbread and said it was—umm—I don’t remember the exact words. ‘Very tasty.’ I think that was it. She said to thank you.”

“I’m glad she liked the gingerbread.” Emma looked pleased. “Was she cordial to you this time? How did your visit go? Tell me.”