He took the rifle into his and Emma's bedroom, and hung it high on two
wooden pegs driven close to the ceiling. For a moment he looked at it,
frowning, and then he was satisfied. He could reach the rifle but Tad
couldn't unless he had something to stand on. If he tried that, Emma
would hear and stop him. Still, the boy was devilishly clever when it
came to sneaking the gun out.
Tad was outside dressing his squirrels, and Barbara had gone down to the
creek to gather a little knob of wild flowers for the table. As soon as
Joe had settled himself in the chair, the four youngest children were
upon him. Joe reached down to lift baby Carlyle into his lap with the
other three, and they cuddled there like soft kittens.
"When I was out in the fields today," Joe began, "I met a big grizzly
bear. He had a mouth this wide...."
He spread his hands to show the width of the grizzly bear's mouth and
his fingers to demonstrate the length of its teeth. Gently, to their
squealing delight, he tickled the four little ones and nibbled their
hands and feet to show how the grizzly bear had mauled and bitten him.
Behind him, Emma stood at the window enjoying, as she did each night,
the pure pleasure that Joe took in his children. She had loved Joe
almost from the day she first set eyes on him, in the store where they
had come together at the counter, she to buy calico for an apron, Joe to
buy some nails for the repair of a fence. Something about the set of his
shoulders and the powerful but easy way he moved caught her attention.
Here was a man slow and sure and strong--slow of speech, slow to smile,
but with an imp of mischief that could dart out unexpectedly from his
eyes. When the storekeeper had held up for his attention a small jug of
maple syrup from a shipment newly arrived, and had inquired, "Like one
of these?" Joe's eyes had strayed to Emma and he'd replied, unblinking,
"Sure would." Joe took the jug of syrup in his hand, hefted it for
weight and again, looking into Emma's startled eyes, said "Sweet, no
doubt of it." Then, absolutely over-come by his own impudence, he had
slapped his money on the counter and run from the store, jug in hand,
nearly falling over a box that stood in his path.
She smiled now, thinking of that casual beginning. Their marriage had
not been easy, but it had been rich in tenderness and in sharing. The
five years that they had lived with her father had been troubled and
barren. Barbara's arrival had given them a center of relief away from
Caleb. Barbara had been like an oasis in a parched land. Their feelings,
that withered and died in Caleb's presence, could grow and flower when
they were alone with their baby girl.
Joe had been bewitched by Barbara from the beginning. And each of his
children had seemed miraculous to him in birth. He was a good man, a
good father. True, there was a restlessness in Joe that sometimes
frightened her. He liked to work, but to work for himself, for his own
family. He had endured Caleb's domination with an inner rage that had
seemed like a bottled-up tornado to Emma. Though he managed to conceal
most of it, the fury of it had at times been revealed in his bloodshot
eyes and white, set lips, in the way he strode out to the plow or pulled
open the barn door--and it had caused a tight little knot of worry to
harden inside of her. He wanted then, and he wanted now, to be on his
own, his own man. The obligation of his debt to Elias Dorrance sat
heavily upon him, more heavily than it did on Emma, because the furious
independence that burned within him raged against the naked fact that
the land was _not_ his own, would not be his own until he had paid back
every last dollar he owed on it.
Emma sighed a little, wishing that Joe did not chafe so under his debt.
If Joe were less restless, she would be able to enjoy even more fully
the home that in this one year had become so precious to her. Her eyes
strayed now from the little mass of squirming and giggling humanity
gathered about Joe's knees, and she re-examined lovingly, for the
thousandth time, every bit of furniture in the room. Most of it had been
made by Joe, and they had talked about it and planned it for where it
would stand and how it would serve them. The little cupboard that held
their best dishes had been polished with such energy that it gleamed as
brightly as a copper pot. The curtains blowing in the soft breeze had
been stitched by Barbara and herself after the young ones were tucked
away for the night. The lamps were polished, their chimneys spotless.
Everywhere in the room there was evidence of labor and tender care. Emma
loved the room and everything in it. Her whole life was here in this
room, with Joe, with her children. Life was hard, but it was rich and
full, and if Joe did not have these flashes of restlessness, it would be
well-nigh perfect.
Barbara came in and put her handful of flowers into a cup on the table
and then, with quiet efficiency, she and Emma put the meal on the table
and the four youngsters slid from Joe's lap to crowd hungrily around.
Tad came in, his face and hands clean and his black hair slicked back
with water. He carried the dressed squirrels on a piece of bark. Laying
them on a wooden bench, he almost leaped into his chair. Emma smiled
with her eyes and Joe smiled back, and the words they had whispered a
thousand times to each other were heard, unsaid but understood.