Side by side, they walked over to where the newcomers were setting up on
the claim accidentally staked by Cindy. The man, who had built a fire
with wood carried in from his wagon, did not look tired any more. He
looked refreshed and ten years younger. Far from seeming worried, the
woman now bloomed like a girl. The four children's eyes were big as
saucers. It was a completely happy family.
Something that couldn't possibly happen to them had happened. They owned
their own farm. The man came to meet the approaching trio.
"I was so flustered that I plumb forgot to be civil," he said. "I'm
Silas Wentworth." He shook hands with Jed and Pete and bowed to Cindy.
"Young lady, we'll never forget you."
"It was just luck," Cindy murmured.
"Come meet the family," said Silas Wentworth. "This is my Missus, Jean,
and these," he indicated the children in their turn, "are Sally, Silas,
Sylvia, and Serena. Say hello, children."
"Hello," Sally, about eight, said bashfully. The younger children
giggled.
"Had breakfast?" Silas Wentworth questioned.
"Well, now--" Mr. Simpson began.
"We ain't got a great store of diffe'nt things," Silas Wentworth seemed
a little embarrassed. "Truth is, we're down to beans. But they's lots of
them."
"Then why'd you tell uth, Pa," Silas, Jr., lisped, "that we'd have to
make out with light mealth till you can get thome?"
"We've had breakfast," Mr. Simpson said firmly.
"Yes, we have," Pete seconded.
"Uh-huh," said Cindy.
"Silas!" said his father, who had turned red as a glass of crabapple
jelly. He looked apologetically at his guests. "Truth is, we are a mite
short. But I've got money, seven whole dollars, an' there must be a town
where a body can buy vittles an' maybe get work too."
"Plains City is two miles east," Pete directed. "There'll be a grocery
there soon if one hasn't set up already."
"I'll ride there tomorra," Silas Wentworth declared. "I'll go the minute
I can leave my fam'ly. But a body who can ask more than his quarter
section of land like this," he looked happily about his farm, "sure is
hard to please."
"What we really came for," Mr. Simpson spoke up, "is to see if we can
borrow a couple of spades."
"Sure thing an' welcome," Silas Wentworth said. He brought a couple of
good spades from his wagon. "Anything else the Wentworths got, you can
have."
"Thanks," said Pete, "but these are all we need right now."
They started back. Pete Brent and Mr. Simpson each carried a spade.
Cindy carried her thoughts, which centered about the hard biscuits she
had eaten last night. If she had one of them right now, just one, she
knew she'd never ask for anything else. Her father touched her shoulder
softly.
"Sorry, honey."
"That's all right," Cindy said stoutly.
"You don't take food from babies, do you?" her father asked.
"Of course not!" said Cindy.
"I knew it would be like this at first," Mr. Simpson said. "I'm, I'm--"
"Yes?" Cindy questioned.
"I'm glad you came," her father said firmly, though Cindy had a feeling
that he had been about to say he was sorry she'd come. "Maybe I can turn
up something. If I can't, Alec will be here with the wagon tomorrow, and
he's sure to bring some food."
"I'll live," said Cindy.
Choosing a knoll near the creek, Mr. Simpson sank his spade. Then he
sank it again, and again, and when he had cut a good-sized sod, he laid
it aside. Cindy knew what he was doing, for Pete had told her how many
Oklahomans would build their first houses. They'd dig into the ground,
saving all the sod they cut out. Then they'd make a cellar as wide and
deep as they thought necessary. The dirt sides would be shored with
sticks, stones, anything they could find, and the house would extend
above ground too. The sides and roof might be all sod, but since they
owned the oak grove, Pete and her father would have wood if they cared
to use it.
[Illustration]
It was not, of course, the good house that every Oklahoman would have
shortly after the homesteads began to pay in the form of crops to be
grown and sold. But it would be snug and warm, and Cindy looked forward
to living in such a place.
She watched her father for some time, and the harder Mr. Simpson worked,
the happier he seemed. He was digging in his own rich soil, and hunger
was a small price to pay for such a privilege. But Cindy, growing
hungrier by the minute, could think of nothing except food. She wandered
away, watched Sparkle crop grass, and wished mightily that she were a
horse. She'd eat until her stomach burst.
But she wasn't a horse and she could think of no practical way to make
herself into one. Cindy went to their last night's camp, and when her
eye was attracted by something bright among the foliage, she picked up
the coil of fine wire that Cal Macklin thought he was putting into his
pocket last night. Instead, he must have dropped it. Cindy slipped the
coil into her own pocket.
Kicking idly among last year's withered leaves, she uncovered a
brown-shelled acorn. She picked it up, cracked it with her teeth, and
immediately puckered her lips. Cindy spat the acorn out. It was better
to be hungry than to feel as though she had a mouth full of flannel.
[Illustration]
She returned to the camp, looked at the skillet and knife Pete had used,
and conjured up fond memories of the glorious feast they'd enjoyed last
night. Suddenly inspired by the thought that more water might help, she
returned to the creek, and chance alone brought her opposite the pool on
the far bank.
The big fish were still there, lying sluggishly in the bottom of the
pool until such time as they fared forth to catch more minnows. Near
them was a pile of driftwood, and Cindy's fertile mind produced a
wonderful idea.
Looking all around, she saw nobody. It followed, therefore, that nobody
could see her; the creek had four-foot banks, and grass grew on top of
those. Stripping to her underwear, Cindy took her clothing in her arms
and waded into the creek. The water was cold at first, and she shrank
from it. But it felt warmer after a second, and she began to enjoy it.
As she waded, she located a chunk of log among the driftwood. And as
soon as she was in shallow water on the other side of the creek, she
acted swiftly. Throwing her clothes down on the bank, she picked up the
log and dropped it across the narrow entrance to the pool.
Seeing her, the big fish swam frantically toward the creek. But they
couldn't pass the log, and they did not like to stay in such shallow
water. They swam back into the pool, dashed here and there, and finally
came to rest almost where they had been before. Cindy proceeded with the
next part of her plan.
She took the coil of wire from her jeans, picked up a long, dead branch,
and tied the wire to its end. In the other end of the wire she made a
sliding loop. Careful to ruffle the water no more than was necessary,
she let her loop sink.
[Illustration]
The first fish she touched on the nose, and that sent all of them into
another panic. But they all came back again, and on Cindy's second try,
the loop settled nicely over a fish. Cindy jerked the pole, tightened
the loop, and yanked out a wriggling bass. One was not enough; she
thought she herself could eat all fifteen of the big fish if only she
had them--but after she caught one more, hunger triumphed.
Carrying the two fish and her clothes, she waded back across the creek,
dressed, and went to camp. She knew what to do. She'd cleaned fish
before, and there was still grease in the frying pan. Forty-five minutes
later she called:
"Father!"
"Yes?" Mr. Simpson answered.
"Mr. Brent!" Cindy called.
"What do you want, Cindy?"
"Come on! Dinner's ready!"