Читать книгу Song of Years - Bess Streeter Aldrich - Страница 5

The beginning of this day took upon itself the beginning of his real pioneering—so Wayne Lockwood thought as he struck ax into the first stalwart hickory.

If only rain would hold off until he had his house completed! But that was too much to hope for, as a single pair of hands would make protracted work of putting up a cabin. Oh, well, he had his wagon-box and its heavy canvas. He had been too many days and nights on the prairie to worry about that.

It was far into the forenoon, with the first tree lying prostrate and denuded of part of its branches, when from the southeast he saw two horses galloping toward him. As they approached he made out that one was ridden by a man, but that skirts were billowing out, balloon-like, at the side of the other.

When they rode close and reined in, the man proved to be middle-aged, black-whiskered, shaggy-browed and dark-skinned, with that tinge of complexion which Wayne was to find later came from the taking of much quinine. He sat his horse with ease, the trunk of his body as erect as the tree Wayne had just marked for the next cutting, but his head drooped forward as though he must be forever urging his mount on.

As the new-comer swung his long legs off, he stood level-eyed across from Wayne so that he, too, must have been fully six feet one.

The billowing skirt (collapsed now into a long gray calico one) belonged to a young girl who might have been any age from twelve to sixteen; it was difficult to tell it, clothed as she was in the full-skirted, tight-waisted garment of the prairie female person.

She had been wearing a gray sunbonnet as stiff as a reed-basket, but it now straddled her neck where it rattled starchily in the brisk wind. Her hair was reddish-brown, vaguely wavy, he could see, for it had partially tumbled out from a black net in the swift riding over the prairie. Her gray-blue eyes looked too large for the slim oval of her face and too mature for a certain childishness.

“Well . . . what’s goin’ on here?” was the man’s bluff and hearty greeting as soon as he had dismounted.

Wayne met him pleasantly enough with: “Oh, I’m sort of setting up housekeeping.” He could see now that under the bushy, black eyebrows peered blue eyes so sharp and bright that they looked like bits of sparkling ice in dark timberland pools.

“Taken over some land?”

“Yes, sir . . .” Wayne threw out his hand at the surrounding scene. “My front yard.”

“Well, now, that’s just about the best news I’ve heard for a spell.”

“I take it you’re one of my neighbors.”

“You took it right. Jeremiah Martin’s my name. I’m an old-time settler now, come two years ago this month. Live over there at the edge of that grove on the trail. You can’t rightly see the house from here but she’s there all right with eleven folks in her when they’re all to home.”

“My name is Wayne Lockwood.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lockwood, and welcome you to the Red Cedar Valley.”

They shook hands, and when Wayne unconsciously glanced at the young girl, high on her tall horse, Jeremiah Martin said: “That’s one of my girls. Let’s see now, slips my mind at this time just which one she is.” His little blue eyes were twinkling behind their black bushes, the only apparent evidence that he spoke facetiously. “Turn around here ’n’ let’s see if I can make out.” And when the young girl smiled complacently down at the two as though this sort of joking were an old and common custom, he spoke in the manner of one who suddenly remembered. “Oh, yes, now I recollect . . . this one’s Suzanne.”

Wayne Lockwood, raised in the atmosphere of his parents’ genteel New England home, took off his cap and held it at his breast while he stepped to her mount’s side and shook the girl’s hard little hand.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Suzanne.”

“Howdydo.” She was neither forward nor shy, merely matter-of-fact, as though strangers were an everyday occurrence.

There was conversation between the two men about the land, the number of sections taken, prospects of other land-seekers coming in and, surprisingly to Wayne, the offer from Mr. Martin in behalf of himself and the other settlers, to help build the cabin. When Wayne protested that he had expected to do everything himself, wouldn’t want to take them from their own work, Jeremiah Martin broke in with: “We’ll all be ready to help cut to-morrow morning’.”

He mounted his mare, turned her preparatory to riding back toward his home, and then said as casually as though he had spoken of it before: “We’ll look for you to supper to-night.”

“Oh, but . . . I’ve got supplies.”

“Just as important to break bread together out here as to break sod.”

“I just meant . . . it wasn’t necessary.”

“Friendship is one of the most necessary things in this world anywhere, my lad, but you’ll need it out here more than you ever have back home.”

“Well, I thank you . . . of course . . .”

They were starting away. The girl looked back over her shoulder and spoke for the first time since her brief salutation.

“We eat about sundown,” she called back. And as casual as it was, Wayne rather liked the fact that she had added her voice to the invitation. It gave a feminine slant to it, as though she represented the women of the household who had the cooking to do.

The two were gone now—Jeremiah Martin, tall and dark-skinned, black of beard and eyebrows, looking as sturdy as any hickory tree, and little Suzanne Martin, her gray print dress blowing into a huge puffball as her horse galloped across the prairie.

All afternoon the sounds of Wayne’s ax rang out where ax had never been before. When the sun was near the horizon he brought water from the creek and washed. Uncertain whether or not to get out his best suit with stock and vest, he finally decided against it, merely brushing his breeches and putting on a clean dark shirt.

Then he combed his thick light hair in front of the little diamond-shaped mirror set in the cover of his hidebound chest. He mounted Blackbird and, leading Belle, set out across the prairie toward the smoke column there at the edge of the grove. Indians were camping by the river and while he had been told in Prairie Rapids that no one feared them greatly, a horse grazing by itself would be a temptation to any chance redskin passer-by.

All the way over toward the cabin he was wondering about the approach of these strangers. He had no great liking to meet new people under any condition, and if, by any chance, Jeremiah Martin himself or the young girl were not around, he had an idea he would be feeling rather foolish to present himself to any of the others with a “here-I-am, feed-me” air.

Mr. Martin had spoken of other girls. That meant at least two others. Girls! He hoped he wouldn’t have to see very much of them. This was a man’s world out here.

The sun had started slipping over the rim of the world now. As he rode, the scene spread out before his eyes challenged him again, as so often it had done in these days he had known the Iowa prairies. He turned in his saddle to get the picture in all its phases. To the west and north, wind rippled the tall grass so that it dipped in long swirling waves of dark-green foam on a light green sea. To the northeast only the thin fringe of timber that clung to the creek bed broke the green sea line. To the south of the trail over which all settlers came stood a large patch of timber land, open prairie beyond, and in the far distance the thick woods along the Cedar. A fine enough sight for any one’s eyes.

And now at the edge of the patch of timberland was a log structure he was to find out later was the school-house, and just beyond it the log cabin of the Martins sat behind the only stake-and-rider fence he had seen in the country. Surprisingly, it was a large log house, much larger than the little tavern at Independence, and equally surprising was the fact that it was whitewashed. To be sure the whitewashing could not cover all that irregularity of logs—stretches of black alternated frequently with the fresh white—but the effect gave him a momentary thought of the good farm-houses back home.

On closer view, its appearance was strangely like two log houses which some giant had pushed together, the end of one flush against the side of the other to form a letter T, and both parts showing small glass windows on the lower floor, solid wooden openings in their lofts.

Because of its two parts it seemed to sit among the native trees like a big speckled brown and white bird in its green nest with one wing outspread, for branches of the oaks and maples, cottonwoods and walnuts nearly touched its roof at the back and sides. The prairie fell away from it at the north so that the front yard would have had only the horizon for its boundaries if the fence had not put limitations upon it, giving the whole place more of a settled appearance than that of any of the other cabins which dotted the trail. A wide opening in the fence denoted the wagon drive, but in direct line with the door of the cabin a small split-rail gate, hung on leather hinges, was evidently a concession to old eastern ways.

And now Wayne was turning into the wide opening in the stake-and-rider fence.

Yes, his fears were to be realized, for although the cabin door stood open there was not a soul in sight. Only from the rear of the house came a high clear voice singing that it had been washed in the blood of the Lamb.

He would have to go through that embarrassing moment then of knocking and saying his little speech of “Here I am, ready to be fed.” He was wishing heartily that he was back at the wagon by the side of his own camp-fire, when two shaggy dogs bounded forth from somewhere, noisy with prospects of attack, but deciding he was not an enemy, went into a mild form of hysterical welcome as he dismounted and tied the horses to the rail fence.

At the noise of the dogs, immediately there were two comely young women appearing in the front doorway. Another with a pan in her hand peered around the corner of the house. From the loft at the left the solid wooden shutter opened outward and two feminine heads appeared. Wayne was vaguely conscious that there were others behind them. It gave him a feeling of embarrassment and indecision, brought a sudden memory of arriving home one afternoon back in New England when his mother was holding a meeting of the ladies of the church. This could hardly be anything of that sort, could it?

Of one thing he was certain—there was no necessity to make himself known in any way, what with girls looking out of windows and tumbling out of doors, and the dogs yelping their excited welcome. Girls! Gosh all hemlock—he didn’t even like girls.

The two young women in the doorway came on down to the log stoop. The young girl with the pan emerged in her entirety from around the corner. Heads were hurriedly withdrawn from the loft windows so that he had a definite intuition the group of femininity in front of him was about to be enlarged.

In that he was quite right. For one fleeting moment he was under the impression that a couple of dozen girls had descended upon him. In reality seven had arrived around the log stoop with much laughter and swishing of full calico dresses. One of the number was holding onto something dangling at the bottom of her skirt. The last two comers were laughing themselves sick over this just recently ripped braid, so that the first of the group, although not knowing what it was all about, joined in merrily, apparently from sheer sympathy of infectious risibilities. There was almost wild commotion, with the great dogs leaping and barking and seven girls emitting laughter in various keys and degrees of volume.

Wayne faced them, unflinching, as he would have done any other brave thing, meeting wolves on the trail, unfriendly Indians, a striking rattler. He had his cap off and the rays of the sinking sun touched his light hair with flecks of bronze. He looked very stalwart and manly standing there in his woodsman’s clothes, his arms folded across his cap. Unconsciously he had his eyes on the young Suzanne, grinning cheerfully at him, who, in all this hubbub of strangers, seemed like a tried and true friend of long standing.

They were closing in on him and at least three of the girls were saying: “You’re the new neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“We knew it,” from four. And he had thought girls out on the raw prairie like this would be shy, backward.

“Pa said . . .”

“He told us you’d bought land and . . .”

“We’re glad to see you and we hope . . .”

One after another they shook hands with him, still talking, not one listening to another. Only Suzanne remained quietly at one side. Having extended her hand to him in the morning, she evidently considered that act enough of the civilities for the day.

“Now we’ll tell you our names and all about us.”

“Yes, tell him.”

“You, Jeanie.”

Wayne bowed to the one designated. “Miss Eugenie,” he said politely, thinking it was the first introduction.

They all shouted with laughter.

“Not Eugenie, just Jeanie.”

“She meant ‘you, Jeanie.’ ”

Wayne laughed, too. One couldn’t help it—their laughter was contagious.

“Yes, I’m Jeanie. I’m third from the oldest—that is, of the girls. Henry and Phineas, our brothers, are the oldest of all. They’ll be here in a few minutes. Now pay good attention. I’m Jeanie.”

“Go on . . . go on,” they all were saying.

“You’ve told him that.”

“All right then.” She pushed them all into line, apparently according to age, so the seven made a long row of laughing girls. She kept her own place, third from the end, leaning forward to introduce each one.

“Now, this first one with the black hair, like a crow, and the beautiful wild-roses complexion and the snapping black eyes—but look out for her ornery bossy disposition—is Sabina, the oldest.”

They all laughed immoderately, Sabina with the others, her black eyes crinkling merrily.

“This second one with the red hair is Emily. She’s got more freckles than a wild turkey’s egg but she can cook a good meal out of water and sawdust, and make a nice dress out of flour sacks.”

Emily was picking off her freckles in pantomime, pretending to scatter them as one would scatter seed.

“I come next. My name is Jeanie. I have a better disposition than Sabina and I . . .”

Her voice was drowned out: “Oh, she does not,” and “She talks about her beaus in her sleep,” and “That’s enough about you.”

“All right. I’ll tell you the rest some other time when these jealous cats ain’t here. This is Phoebe Lou. You can remember her by her molasses-colored hair and her green eyes and the hole here in her cheek. She thinks it’s a dimple and pokes it in with her finger . . .”

It set them off, so she did not try to finish.

“This is Melinda. She looks a little bit like Sabina, you can see. We can tell them apart though because she’s taller and her mouth is bigger and she always tears her clothes.” This was the one with the dangling braid. “She’s the gadabout, too . . .”

“Oh, I am not.”

“Yes, she is,” they chorused. “She always goes out and sits in the wagon, and Pa finds her there waiting.”

When the hubbub subsided Jeanie went on: “This one is Celia. She says her hair is golden, but we all think it’s more like a pale frozen punkin. She thinks she’s grown up, too, and no one could make her believe she ain’t the prettiest. She ain’t though, is she, girls?”

“No,” they hooted in one voice.

“This one is Suzanne, the baby. She’s Pa’s pet. She’s a queer sort . . . you’d think she lived in a hollow tree . . . she can sing, too, like a meadow-lark . . .”

“You mean a tree-toad,” another put in, and they all laughed.

Suddenly, some one started it, and as though it were a part of the introductions they began singing a doggerel with no melody, merely on the ascending notes of the scale.

“Sabina and Melinda, Emilee and Phoebe Lou,

Suzanne, Celia, Jeanie. We have told them all to you.

We are a band of sisters, and you see we’re not a few.

We are a band of sisters, may we faithful be and true.”

It ended in breathless laughter as though at the expense of their own silliness.

Wayne was speechless, not from embarrassment or bashfulness now. He merely could not have talked if he tried. But he was no longer fearful of meeting the Martin family. He had never known anybody just like them but decidedly he was not bereft of his ease with them. It was as though they were not girls at all—just people.

And now the men folks, evidently through washing after work in field and barn, came around the house, one by one. Jeremiah, himself, the father of these gay magpies, tall and black-bearded and jovial, shook hands with Wayne again and welcomed him to his home. Then Henry came—their oldest brother, several volunteered—black-bearded like his father, but either naturally retiring in disposition or merely quiet because he could not get a word in edgewise. And then Phineas, sandy-haired, with sideburns and a roving eye.

In the midst of all this commotion, the mother, Sarah Martin, came out to the log stoop and shook hands with Wayne. She was so small and wiry-looking that he had a moment of wonderment over her giving birth to all these offspring. She, too, was sandy-haired so that it was easily seen where the red-haired children got their coloring. In fact, the crow-black hair and bright blue eyes of the father, the reddish hair and snappy dark eyes of the mother had been handed down to the nine children in all sorts of combinations and modifications so that no single description could cover the physical make-up of the family as a whole.

Supper was all ready to take up, Sarah Martin, the mother, was saying, and they must come right in before it got as cold as spring water. Talking and laughing, they all trooped up the great tree-trunk step and into the main room of the queer log house.