Once Upon a Summer (22 page)

Now it was time for snow—in fact, it was past due. The birds had long since migrated, the animals were wearin’ their heavier coats. Nights were frosty and cold, coverin’ all but the swiftly movin’ water with ice. Ponds were great for ice-skatin’ and slidin’, but already we kids were tired of that sport and were wishin’ that the snow would come so that we could sled and snowball instead.

The farmers all talked about the dryness. At first it had been jest to make conversation, then it was downright concern.

The stubble fields were tinder dry, and the heaped-up dead leaves from the trees rattled like old dry bones as the winds shifted their directions. Livestock had to be watered daily, the natural waterin’ holes havin’ frozen over and the liquid from the snow not bein’ there to slacken their thirst. People worried about the wild animals and their need for water.

It was strange—even the feelin’ in the air got to be different somehow. And then it happened.

It was still afternoon, crisp but with no wind and not a cloud in the sky. We had jest been dismissed from school when Avery Garrett let out a whoop.

“Look—there in the west—clouds!”

A general holler went up.

“Snow’s comin’!”

“We can sleigh ride!”

“An’ snowball!”

“Yippee!”

The teacher heard the commotion and appeared behind us.

“Those aren’t clouds, boys. That’s smoke!”

“Smoke?”

We looked again; it
was
smoke. I could also see that it was somewhere off in the direction of our farm. Without waitin’ for another word from anyone, I lit off for home.

As I got nearer I could see that the smoke was not comin’ from the farm but beyond it. That relaxed me some but still I ran on. Before I even got halfway across our pasture, I could see things stirrin’ in our yard. Teams and riders were millin’ around and more were arrivin’. People ran back and forth between the pump and the wagons. Other wagons carryin’ anything that would hold water were at the creek bridge down the road.

I thought that I’d never hold out to reach the yard, but I guess I got my second wind.

You could smell the smoke in the air now, and it appeared from the clouds that were billowin’ to the sky that the stubble fire was headed directly for our place.

I stumbled into our yard, pantin’ for breath, jest in time to hear Grandpa addressin’ the gathered neighbor men.

“I thank ya for all comin’ and offerin’ to help me save the farm, but it jest won’t work.”

He was interrupted by protests, but he held up his hand for silence.

“Iffen we fight to save my buildin’s, it will take
every
man and
every
team to win. While we’re battlin’ to save what we have here, the flanks of the fire will get away from us, go on to other farms and then the town. We can’t ’llow that. You know it and I know it. We’ve got to let my farm go and concentrate on saving others—particularly the town.”

It was grim business, but the men knew that what Grandpa said was true.

“I’ll take a man or two,” continued Grandpa, “and Charlie and me will load what we can here and try to drive the stock over across the crik before the fire gets here.”

I looked around. The house with Auntie Lou’s white curtains showin’ at the windows, the barn that housed Bossie, the pigs in the pen, my favorite cottonwood tree, the trail to the crik—everything, everything that I knew and loved would soon be gone.

“Ya best be movin’ out, men,” my Grandpa said. “We don’t have much time.”

The men, murmurin’ and shakin’ their heads, turned to their teams.

I felt sick. My knees gave out and I felt myself goin’ down.

I managed to slide onto a wood block to make it look like I’d sorta sat down intentional like. I put my head in my hands but jerked it up again when I heard someone shout, “Wait!” Guess all heads jerked up at that one word.

It was the preacher. His horse stood there in a lather, heavin’ from the run. The preacher was in his preacher-visitin’ clothes so everyone knew that he had been makin’ a call on someone when he spotted the fire.

“Aren’t you going to try to save the farm?”

“Nope,” one of the men answered flatly. “Daniel says we need to save the town instead.”

“I think there’s a way to save both.”

The men looked at the preacher kind of dumb-like.

“Mr. Jones is right, but maybe there’s a way that we can save the farm, too. We’ll move toward the fire about three-quarters of a mile, where the creek cuts in the closest to the road. Since most of the fire is between the creek and the road, the flames will cover a narrower area.

“When we get there you men with the plows will make a vee between the creek and roads, pointing east, and the fire will feed itself into the vee. That way the strength of the fire will decrease as it moves east, and it won’t take as many men to hold each line.

“Mr. T. Smith, you take three men and watch for fires on the south side of the road. Mr. Corbin, you take two men and follow the creek to catch any small fires from jumpers. Those on plows make that vee as fast as your teams can move. All the rest of us will be on hand with water barrels and wet gunny sacks. We’ll work both sides of the vee and lick that thing before it gets this far.”

In the same hurried voice the parson raised his hand and said, “Let us pray.” All the men bowed their heads nervously.

“Dear Lord, you know our need and how much we depend upon your help. We’re not going to give you orders about what to do, God. We are just going to thank you for being there when we need you. In the name of Jesus, your Son. Amen.”

The men had looked doubtful when the preacher had first started talkin’, but by the time he had finished his prayer, their faces showed new assurance and they were ready to go. Teams began to leave our yard—some of them on a reckless run. Uncle Charlie jest barely made it to the gate ahead of them and threw it wide open to give them free access through our field. There was a fence between our field and the Turley pasture, but I knew that the first man there would simply snip the wires so that the plows could pass through.

Our yard was soon boilin’ with activity. Men ran for more barrels, pails, water, gunny sacks, shovels, hoes—anything that would aid in fightin’ the fire.

Grandpa’s partin’ shout had been, “Keep an eye on thet fire, Josh, an’ iffen it gets by us, you all git.” Uncle Charlie had left our team hitched to the rig and tied to the rail fence for jest that purpose.

The dust finally cleared and Auntie Lou and I were standin’ alone, shakin’. She was holdin’ Pixie as though that little dog were her last connection with a sane world. Gramps came to stand with us.

Gramps had wanted to go, too, to do what he could as a fire fighter, but Grandpa had put his foot down.

“I jest don’t want to chance it, Pa.” Grandpa had said.

“ ’Sides, yer needed here—in case this don’t work.”

I took the tremblin’ Pixie from Auntie Lou’s arms. She stood there silent and white. Her eyes watched the departin’ men and horses—one wagon in particular—where the preacher was hitchin’ a ride. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothin’.

Auntie Lou suddenly came alive. I wondered for a minute what she was up to and then I realized where she was headin’. The preacher’s horse stood where he had wandered after bein’ left on his own. His sides still heaved with each breath he drew, and he was flecked with foam from runnin’. Auntie Lou walked up to him. He trembled and moved away a step, but she spoke softly and he let her gather the reins in her hand. Still speakin’ she slipped his saddle and hung it on the rail fence; then she proceeded to rub him down with handfuls of dry grass.

The horse responded to her voice and hands, and gradually stopped shakin’. The rubbin’ seemed to settle him down, and by the time he was dry his sides had stopped their jerky heaves. Lou continued rubbin’ and soothin’, talkin’ all the while. I don’t know what she was tellin’ that horse, but it seemed to have a quietin’ effect. By the time she had finished and had tethered him, he was ready to eat a bit.

I hadn’t stirred. I felt nailed to the spot, unable to think or move. As Auntie Lou walked back toward the house, I looked again to the west. The fire had definitely drawn closer. I wondered if they’d be able to hold it, if the preacher’s vee would really work. I shuddered and held Pixie so tight that she squirmed and whined.

“You’d best get on with the chores, Josh.”

It was Auntie Lou speakin’. She spoke jest as though nothing out of the ordinary was happenin’.

“Do you want some milk and cookies first?”

I shook my head no, and went in to change my school clothes.

Gramps and Lou followed me in. Her face was still pale, but other than that she looked composed enough, “It could be a long fight,” she said. “I’d best get on a big pot of coffee and make up sandwiches for when it’s over.”

Gramps spoke then for the first time.

“I was wondering, my dear, if we should pack some blankets and clothing into that wagon just in case we need to leave in a hurry—in case it doesn’t work.”

“It’ll work.”

Auntie Lou seemed so confident of the fact that I could almost believe it too.

Gramps smiled and let it go, and when Auntie Lou washed her hands and moved to her cupboards to set to work, he did likewise.

I made sure that Pixie was in a safe spot where I could find her quickly if I needed to, and set out to care for the chores.

The smoke hung heavy in the air now and at times you even could see the flicker of the flames.

I did all of the chores. Even milked Bossie. She fidgeted some, a rarity in Bossie. She usually stood still as stone for milkin’.

Instead of puttin’ her back to pasture, I jest left her in the

barnyard; then I went to the house with the milk.

I knew by the look to the west that the fire had reached the

vee. They’d be fightin’ there to hold it—all those neighborfolk and Grandpa and Uncle Charlie—and the preacher.

I had counted fifteen of them in all. Not many men to fight a runaway stubble fire, what with the fields as dry as matchsticks, but at least there was little wind blowin’ to fight against them. That would give them a little extra time and make their efforts more effective.

I hurried the milk to the house. The pail wasn’t as full as usual. I didn’t know for sure if that was Bossie’s fault or mine.

Auntie Lou and Gramps had finished fixin’ and packin’ sandwiches. The big black kettle filled with coffee was steamin’ and fillin’ the kitchen with its pleasant aroma.

“Josh,” Auntie Lou said as I stepped through the door, “set the milk down and bring all of the milk cans. Fill two of them with water from the pump and bring the other one to me.”

I ran.

It was a big job pumpin’ those cans of water. Guess it wouldn’t have been so bad if I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry. I was out of breath by the time I got the job done. I couldn’t carry the full cans on my own, so I put the lids on and let them sit.

Auntie Lou came out, followed by Gramps. They both were carryin’ the baskets that had been packed with sandwiches and cups. I watched as they deposited them in the light wagon that had been left for our escape. They both studied the sky to the west. It was gettin’ quite dark by now so the red glow showed up even brighter. The cloudy billows did seem to come from a narrower strip and we began to have real hopes that the men were holdin’ the fire.

The remainin’ milk can was filled with the steamin’ coffee, and it was placed in the wagon with a heavy woolen quilt tucked securely around it. We loaded the cans of cold water, and after Auntie Lou did a final check to be sure that we had everything, we started off.

“We’ll go around by the road,” Auntie Lou advised and I knew that she was right. If we followed the road there was no danger of bein’ trapped by a fresh outbreak of flames.

I tucked Pixie in a box with Uncle Charlie’s old jacket inside. There was no way that I was chancin’ leavin’ her at home alone.

I drove, Gramps not havin’ much experience with team drivin’, and Lou wantin’ to let me feel like a man.

It seemed to take forever to get to the fire. Now and then the smoke would almost make us choke, and we had to breathe through a sleeve or some other piece of our clothin’. The horses were skitterish, not likin’ the smoke one little bit, and it took all of my attention jest to keep them under control.

It appeared that the sky was cloudin’ up some, but it was awful hard to tell what was true cloud and what was smoke cover.

We pulled the team up short of the actual fire site, and Gramps walked on ahead to see how things were farin’ and to pass on the word that we were there.

He came back almost on the run. They were doin’ it—they were holdin’ the fire! Little fires were still breakin’ out all along the plowed vee, the men not havin’ time to plow as many furrows as they really needed. But they were holdin’ it, and already it was startin’ to diminish.

The word of our bein’ there passed along the ranks quickly; the men came two-by-two to take a sandwich and coffee break. Most of the men were more anxious for some cold water. I guess Auntie Lou had figured that when she set me to gettin’ the two cans filled.

Two-by-two they came, hurriedly, anxious to get back to their spot in the line, their faces soot-streaked, their clothes smoke-smellin’. Some had small burns and Auntie Lou set Gramps to cleanin’ them up and wrappin’ the ones that needed it with strips of clean white cloth and strong smellin’ ointment.

Auntie Lou poured coffee and served sandwiches and asked the news of the fire from each new pair that came. We found that the fire had given them all a real scare at one point. It had jumped the crik at a narrow spot, and the men fightin’ there had had to call on others to help them get the new blaze under control. The men along the road and the vee had had to cover more area then, and it looked for a while that the fire was goin’ to win. A few more men had arrived from the surroundin’ farms, and that had added, jest in time, fresh strength to the firefighters. They were able to hold it and eventually beat it back.

I saw Cullum comin’ for refreshments along with Joey Smith. He looked as sooty as the rest of them, even though he had been one of the late arrivers, havin’ farther to come than others. He drank his coffee a little slower than some, and all the time he kept stealin’ glances at Auntie Lou. She didn’t seem to notice. I asked Cullum how things were goin’.