"You say it."
"So you can too, huh? Get this, don't let me ever again hear you say
anything that even sounds like a cuss word. And no more wildcats."
"It was only a little one."
"You heard me!"
Tad's face was stubborn, a little sullen. For a moment he said nothing
and Joe repeated,
"You heard me!"
"Yes, Pa."
Joe lighted their way back to the house, blew the lantern out before he
entered and hung it on a wooden peg. The gesture was automatic, and
brought about by a lifetime of necessarily frugal living. One never
stinted his family, himself, or his animals, in that order, on food. But
one never wasted anything at all that cost money. Though the
circuit-riding Reverend Haines often thundered to those of his flock who
lived in Tenney's Crossing that money was the root of all evil, Joe had
never believed that. Money was simply the hardest of all things to come
by.
For once hardly savoring the food--and Emma had an almost magic touch
with the plainest of viands--Joe ate because it was necessary to eat.
Only vaguely was he aware of Barbara's keeping a watchful eye on the
chattering younger children; of Tad, sullenly disappointed and still
rebellious but not letting that interfere with his always prodigious
appetite. He seemed closest to Emma, in whom everything else always
seemed to center, and he knew that she was watching him while she
worried about him. Before very long he would be asleep.
The youngsters slid from their chairs and went back to the bits of
string they had been playing with. Obviously, for the time being, Emma's
sadirons were horses because they were all tied at different places
around the room. They wouldn't need him tonight, and Joe excused
himself.
"Reckon I'll go see if the sky's still in place."
He rose from the table and stepped outside into the pleasant summer
night. There was only blackness, unrelieved by any hint of moon or star
light. Tad's dog came to wag a welcoming tail and sniff, and even while
Joe petted the dog he thought that Mike wouldn't herd stock and he
wouldn't hunt except with Tad. Therefore, in a land where everything had
to earn its keep, he was useless. But young ones had to have something
and Tad liked his pet largely, Joe suspected, because Mike could whip
any other dog, or any other two dogs, in the whole country.
Joe breathed his fill of the night air, went back into the house, and
for a few moments idly watched his four younger children at their play.
Emma and Barbara were doing the dishes and, with a trace of sullenness
still lingering about him, Tad sat at the table cutting a new sheath for
his knife. Joe leaned against the door jamb and drowsed for a second. He
seemed to be back in Tenney's store, listening to tales of unlimited
land and unlimited opportunity in the west, and he saw his children with
those opportunities before them. Joe shook himself awake.
He felt numb with fatigue as he took off his clothes and methodically
hung them up. Though there were nights when he liked to stay late with
the men at Tenney's store, tonight sleep was more inviting. But for a
few minutes he lay wide awake and he knitted his brows because he was
troubled about something. However, it was nothing he could clearly
define and after a while Joe forced it from his mind. As soon as he did,
he fell into a sound slumber. When he awakened, gray dawn again lingered
behind the curtains with which Emma had draped the windows. Not for
another three quarters of an hour would the rising sun change the gray
to gold, and for a few moments Joe knew sheer contentment. Restful
slumber had driven away the exhaustion and physical aches of the night
before. Beside him, Emma still slept soundly.
Then, out in the lightening morning, Tad's dog barked. Emma came slowly
awake, and turned to smile at him.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, darling."
He moved a little nearer, feeling the warmth of her body against his.
Joe remembered his youth and bachelor days as a somewhat fruitless
period, and he had not reached fulfillment until his marriage. Their
life had never been easy. But it had always been good and this was one
of the best parts of every day. For a little while they could be
together in complete idleness, each happy because the other was near.
They were rested and refreshed, ready to cope with the problems, big and
small, that the day might bring. But in the morning, just before they
arose, the big problems seemed small, and the small ones trifling.
"What's the dog barking at?" Emma asked drowsily.
"He's probably found a varmint out in the field. I'll go see. You rest a
while yet."
Joe slipped out of bed, stretched luxuriously, stripped off his night
shirt and put on his clothes. He went to the door, swung it open and
stared stupidly at what he saw.
A rangy black steer stood in the center of the trampled corn patch,
chewing placidly on a stalk of corn that projected like a green stick
from its mouth. A herd of varicolored cows and steers were foraging
listlessly or switching tails in what remained of the oat field. The
vegetable garden lay in ruins. Though most of the cattle had filled
their stomachs and were now contented to digest the rich fare they had
eaten, a few calves and yearlings were still cropping eagerly at
anything green that remained.
Joe's immediate reaction was a vast weakness, as though his body were no
longer a solid thing but a liquid mass. He wilted like a melting candle,
everything that had gone to make him suddenly dissolved, and only the
feeble flame of a sputtering wick remained to prove that there ever had
been anything else. Then he braced himself and fought back.
His whole life had been a struggle, with the odds tremendously against
him. He'd been close to the breaking point only a month ago, when the
desire to go west had swept around him like a flame, and he'd been
forced to blot it out and forget it. Forgetting it had left him
curiously empty and deflated. But he'd pulled himself together and
knuckled down to the job of making this crop a good one. Now the crop
lay before him, destroyed. A seething anger began slowly to gather in
Joe's chest, and he held on to the doorframe to steady himself.
Emma appeared at his shoulder, and when he looked at her Joe saw that
her face was pale. She said nothing but her comforting arm slipped about
him. Joe said inanely,
"They're Pete Domley's cattle."
"I know."