  Pete, Jed, and Cindy sat together at the edge of the oak grove. Arms clasped around his knees, Pete stared at the horizon. Mr. Simpson used a piece of broken stick to dig interestedly into the rich soil of this new land, and Cindy gazed hungrily at the wagon. "They seem," she said hopefully, "like such nice people." "I'm sure they are," her father said. "And they must have just loads of things in that big wagon." "They must have," said Mr. Simpson. "So if I went over there and sort of—" "Cindy!" her father roared. "Food is given, not asked for!" "I wasn't going to ask for any." "No. You were just going to hint around until they gave you some." "Dang it, Jed," Pete broke in, "we didn't really give 'em a chance to offer us any." "So we didn't." "If all three of us go over," Cindy suggested, "they'll have a chance." Mr. Simpson said reluctantly, "We might find out." 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. 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. 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. 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!" |
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