Spring for Susannah (32 page)

Chetan lifted his chin toward the river. “Whites scare away the fish.”

Misun watched the bull boat move in circles down the river. “No paddles. No brains.”

“But one has a nice rifle.” His cousin started his horse down the bluff, braids slapping his back.

Misun clicked to his gray and followed. “Your mother will be mad if you are shot.”

“Whites without paddles are too busy to shoot.”

“How will you get the rifle?”

“I do not know.” The river might be low this time of year, but it was never free of trouble. The boys trailed the boat downstream. They recognized the two with the knit hats, whiskey traders who had been banned from the Standing Rock Agency. The third, with the nice rifle, was unfamiliar.

“Go.” Chetan urged his horse into the water. But before he could reach them, the boat slammed into a stump. The men flew out, hit the water, then disappeared. A moment later something white bobbed up downstream.

The boys swam their horses to the floating thing. Chetan grabbed, but the river did not release it. Misun hooked the other side. The stranger hung underneath. Moving in tandem, they hauled him to the riverbank.

Chetan slid off his horse. “He dropped the rifle.”

“So would I.” Misun squatted beside the drowned man. The floating thing turned out to be a woven bag. Why did it not sink? Inside, he found a hollow object made of polished wood, about as long as a beaver. Wires stretched its length; perhaps useful as snares. When Misun tried to pull them off, they made a noise.

Chetan donned the man's shoes. Too loose. “Maybe they will fit Father.”

“Hey.” The wires made sounds, each different. “Maybe our mothers will forget about the fish.”

“Only food makes me forget hunger.”

The man gurgled and coughed, spitting river water. He opened his eyes, looked at Misun, and said, “Tatanka.”

“He speaks.” Misun introduced himself and his cousin, then held up the wood thing. “What is this called? What does it do?”

But the white's eyes closed and he was silent.

“He called you the wrong name.” Chetan rooted through the other bag on the man's back, finding clothes, a tin cup, and a small knife.

“Hey.” The boy loosened the string holding the man's hat to his head. An eagle's feather had been woven into the hatband. “Maybe his name is Tatanka. Maybe he has done a great deed.”

“Like shoot some Indians?” Chetan opened a metal bottle and tasted water. Cleaner than using a skin; worth saving.

“I want to keep him. He can teach me this.” Misun pulled on the wires, making more sounds.

“Now who has no brains?” In the man's pocket, Chetan found a few coins. He saved them for the next time a trader came through.

Misun brought his horse close. The animal snorted, protesting the strange smell of the man.

“Your horse thinks this is a bad idea too. Leave him here. The whites will bury him according to their customs.”

Misun shook the white. “Tatanka! Wake up!”

The man was heavy, but he roused enough to stand. The boys flopped him over Misun's horse, bringing up more river water from his belly. They climbed the bluff and headed toward their village.

“If he is not dead now,” Chetan said to the sunset, “he will be when we get home.”

Susannah kicked the loose dirt. “Ivar says there could be potatoes here. Dogs are good at digging. Why don't you find them?”

Jake flopped at the edge of the garden, panting.

“Not even pointing me in the right direction?” She dragged the potato fork along the furrows. Morning sun warmed her shoulders and evaporated the dew from the row of stubs that had been cornstalks. “All this good food, gone. Lord, Jesse said it was all right to be angry with You, so let me just say, I'm furious! I worked hard on this garden, planting, weeding, watering. And Jake kept it free of rabbits.”

The dog stood, scanning for invaders.

“Why? What did we do wrong?” At the far end of the furrow, she turned over a finger-sized piece of rind, all that remained of her watermelon crop. “You said You'd provide for all our needs. You said ask and we'll receive. I'm pretty sure Jesse asked You to provide for us, so I'm asking again. Please—”

A leafless woody vine marked the former pumpkin patch.

Orienting herself, she guessed the location of the row, stabbed, and levered down on the handle. Up popped a potato. The next forkful brought up three. Then five.

By noon Susannah had filled the root cellar.

She turned her face to the sky. “Thank You, Lord,” she said. But in the back of her mind, the truth gnawed at her: Jesse hadn't needed to leave after all.

Susannah? Jesse reached for his wife but felt only grass and hard ground. His lungs burned from coughing and his muscles ached from shivering with the cold. And the smell! Someone had a bad case of Confederate's disease.

He heard a drumbeat, a steady rhythm. People sang but not in English. Somewhere a dog barked. Jesse managed to get his eyes open. The darkness was complete. Had he gone blind? No, the moon shone through an opening in the roof. He felt around. A tent, with leather walls, he guessed. No clothes. A wool blanket lay next to his feet. He covered himself. Water would taste good about now, to get this bitter taste out of his mouth.

Then he remembered. Grasshoppers. Susannah. Money. How long had he been gone? He had to—

An elderly woman leaned over him. He couldn't understand the words, but she gave him a chewing out that would have scared the toughest sergeant in the army. Moonlight caught on the silver circle hanging from her neck.

Another person came into view, a man with straight long hair, an Indian. Sees-the-Tatanka, maybe.

He tried to speak but the effort exhausted him, and he couldn't stay awake to hear what the man would say.

Susannah swung the scythe at the tall slough grass. The blade bounced, cutting only two stems. She tightened her grip, raised the handle over her left shoulder, and put all her weight into the swing. The impact vibrated up her arm to the base of her neck. Three stalks fell. She took the sharpening stone from her apron pocket, ran it along the blade, and tried again. The results were no better.

“I'm just tired from hauling all those potatoes.” Susannah stepped on the hub of the wheel, pulled herself into the box, and lay down. “Five-minute nap,” she told Jake, “and then you'll see some hay cut.”

When Susannah finally stretched and sat up, the shadows angled long against the prairie; her nap had lasted more than a few minutes. “So much for making hay while the sun shines.”

Her hands, swollen and tender from the morning's work, burned on the scythe handle. She hacked away, but dented more grass than she cut. During one vigorous swing, she heard a rip and felt cool air on her shoulder blade. Her sleeve had separated from the back of her bodice. She dropped the scythe, grabbed the pitchfork, and stabbed the small pile of grass. Most of it slid off before she reached the wagon. “Forget it,” she said aloud. She threw the tools in the wagon and loaded the hay by hand. Four handfuls and done.

“Ivar was right,” Susannah told Jake, “this is man's work. I'd have more success using my sewing scissors. Then I'll split firewood with my letter opener. Let's go home.”

Jake's low growl broke into her reverie. A man stood in the shade of the house. As she approached he stepped into the sunlight and lumbered toward the wagon. A plaid shirt, pattern blurred by grime, stretched across the girth of Abner Reece.

“Lord, help,” she whispered. Foolish girl, she'd left the gun in the soddy. The pitchfork? No, she'd most likely hurt herself. Halting the oxen just inside the draw, she hurriedly draped her shawl over her ripped dress and jumped down.

“Mr. Reece, it's an honor to have you pay us a call.” She sidestepped to stay upwind of him. Since last spring, he had ripened, like a fresh manure pile on the hottest day of summer.

Jake circled the man, then loped off to the creek. Some protection he was.

“Heard you got chickens.” The big man reached inside his shirt and scratched. “Been hungry for eggs.”

Why hadn't he walked to the store? Then she realized: He had. And Mr. and Mrs. Rose, the town criers, had spread the news of Jesse's departure. Worthington wouldn't need a newspaper as long as they were around.

“Yes, I have eggs. I'll fix a basket for you.”

He scratched his beard. “Well, I was wondering if you'd cook them up for me.”

All she wanted to do was rest, but she couldn't risk angering him. “How do you prefer them?”

“Scrambled's fine, half dozen or so.” He unhitched her team.

Susannah stirred the fire, then cracked six eggs into the skillet. Mr. Reece watered the oxen and stowed the wagon. His heavy steps echoed across the draw. The room darkened and she heard a snuffling sound. His head bobbed under the lintel.

“Mr. Reece, if you'll take a seat in the yard, please. It's awfully close in here.”

With a grunt, he lowered himself to the chopping block. Thank heavens he didn't come inside. If he had squeezed through, he would have collapsed anything he sat on and suffocated her with his odor. “Dear Lord,” she whispered, “this would be a good time for Jesse to come home.”

Susannah heaped the yellow curds into a mixing bowl, stuck a fork in, and filled a coffee mug. Should she carry the gun? Not unless she grew another hand. She slipped her sharpest knife into her apron pocket, for all the good it would do.

“They might have the grasshopper taste still.” She couldn't stand here watching him eat. “If you'll excuse me, I'll get that basket.”

Nodding, he palmed the fork and dug in.

Susannah collected four new eggs from the shed, padded them with a layer of straw, and added eight more from the root cellar. Mr. Reece watched as she moved between the house and the shed.

“How are you set for potatoes?” She put the basket on the ground beside him.

“Got enough.”

Susannah sat on the threshold, within reach of the shotgun. Would it stop this buffalo-sized man?

“Got sisters?”

“I'm an only child.”

“Guess you're lonely out here with Jesse gone. I can stay until he gets back.”

“I appreciate your concern, but that's really not necessary.”

“You could wait over to my place.”

“I'm expecting him at any moment.”

“Can't find a wife of my own, nor borrow someone else's.” A belch reverberated from deep within, echoing off the soddy. “Change your mind, I'm eight miles west of here. Ford the river on the section line.”

“Eight miles! You'd best be on your way so you can make it before dark.” Susannah took the bowl and mug from him. “Thank you for calling.” Inside the soddy she barred the door, leaning against it for support. She watched as Abner Reece ambled up the slope toward the sunset.

And the truth struck her like a blow: Ivar was right. She couldn't stay on the homestead alone.