Hattie Big Sky (5 page)

“Let her be!” I took off my cap and slapped it against my thigh.

Startled, the wolf let go of Violet's tail.

“Run, Violet!” I waved my arms like a butter churn gone mad. “Run!”

The wolf recovered from its shock and snatched Violet's tail once again in its jaws. I searched frantically for something to throw. The Chinook had uncovered a patch of rocky ground near the crest of the bank. I picked up the biggest stones I could find and began to pitch them at that wolf.

One thing the wolf could not know is that I learned to throw from the best pitcher in Fayette County, Iowa: Charlie. One rock clipped the wolf on the hindquarters, another on the back of the neck. Still, that wolf hung on. He must've been starving. He yanked and jerked at Violet's tail.

I reached for the last rock. This one had to count. I let it fly.

“Yip!” The wolf yelped, turned, and hightailed it, a good chunk of Violet's tail dangling from between his jaws.

I was frozen by the time I chased Violet down. She was bawling like a lost calf as I grabbed her thick leather collar. A little stub twitched at the end of her rump. That was all that remained of that whip of a tail.

“Bless it all, Violet!” Fear turned to tears and relieved laughter. “Aunt Ivy's right again. The Lord surely does work in mysterious ways.” Seems that the wolf and I both made out okay in this affair: He got a little snack, and I got an eternal reprieve from Violet's vicious tail. It was a fair enough trade.

I picked up my muddied hat and led Violet back to the barn, quieting her with an extra portion of hay. I examined the raw stump of a tail, oozing blood. It needed doctoring, and I had not one clue about what to do. A clean rag tied tightly seemed to stanch the bleeding. My good humor turned to fear as I thought about losing my cow.

I was going to have to get help. I whistled for Plug and mounted up. We plodded through the drifted snow to Perilee's. I hadn't been to visit yet but knew to follow the path to Vida, a path Rooster Jim had freshly marked with his sledge. The way must have been familiar to Plug, who picked up the pace as we drew close.

“Come in, come in.” Perilee waved me inside her warm house—a real house, with two doors, a bedroom, and a parlor. Perilee fetched two thick white mugs. “I'll bet your blood's about frozen.” She motioned for me to sit. “A cup of coffee will fix anything.”

“How about a cow's tail?” I took the mug from her, warming my aching hands, then relayed to her the morning's misadventure.

Perilee laughed out loud. “Hon, what I wouldn't have given to see that.” Her laughter softened to a chuckle. “Wouldn't Chester love to know that Violet finally got her comeuppance?”

“I do worry about caring for the wound,” I said.

“Karl would know, but he's not here.” Perilee set her coffee mug down. “My pa always swore by a poultice of brown sugar and cobwebs—though where you'd find cobwebs in this bitter cold, I have no idea. Flour paste and brown paper should work fine, too.”

“What's Karl doing working in this weather?” I shivered. “My wash is going to be frozen on the line by the time I take it down.”

Fern let out a little squeal from her apple crate bed. Perilee stepped over and patted her on the back till she quieted.

She pulled a newspaper from the shelf and brought it over to me. “He's not working.”

“Alien Enemies Must Register,” blared the headline. I began to read.

The following instructions and suggestions are sent out from the United States Department of Justice through the office of the United States Marshal for Montana to all male German alien enemies of the age of 14 years or more. February 4 to 9, 1918, inclusive, between the hours of 6 a.m. and 8 p.m. have been designated as the dates and time when registrations must be made. Excepting in nine of the larger cities of the state all postmasters are registrars for their respective districts.

I put down the paper. “I don't understand.”

Perilee picked up her coffee mug but didn't drink. She rolled the mug back and forth in her hands. “Karl's at the post office in Vida right now, registering.”

“Karl? An alien
enemy?
”

“He was born in Germany.”

I looked at the paper again. “There must be a good reason for this, Perilee.”

She held my gaze. “What good reason is there to treat neighbors—someone like Karl—like this?”

I thought of all the articles Uncle Holt had read aloud. Awful stories about starving Belgians and cruelties of war. Unbelievable stories. But it was the Huns who were responsible. The Germans over there. Not here. Not people we knew. “I don't know. But it wouldn't be required if there wasn't one.” I held out my hands, helpless. “Would it?”

Thwack.
Perilee set her coffee cup down hard. “I guess we're supposed to be grateful there's no fee to register.” She rubbed at her eyes. “But there'll be a price to pay. Traft Martin and his County Council of Defense will make sure of that.”

Fern started fussing again. “Now, see what I've done.” Perilee placed her hand on mine. “I'm sorry, sugar. I get so darned angry sometimes. It's not your fault.”

I slipped my hand on top of hers. “It would take more than that to scare me off,” I said. “You've got nothing on Aunt Ivy.”

That drew a smile from Perilee. “You'd better get back to that cow of yours,” she said, picking the baby up.

“I'd better.” I drained my coffee cup.

“Do you have enough flour for a paste?” Perilee jiggled Fern. “I can spare some if you don't.”

I'd started to tie my shawl around me and stopped mid-knot. “I've got plenty.” Perilee would do anything for me. For anyone. Same with Karl. Where did you go to register for that?

“Nothing bad will happen.” I hoped she knew I was talking about Karl, not Violet.

“I wish.” Perilee patted Fern's back, then shook her head. “Mix some sugar with that flour, put it on her tail, and wrap it in brown paper. Tie it on and leave it for a week.”

“Thank you.” I patted her back as she patted Fern's, then snugged my shawl tighter around me and left.

An uneasiness settled on me as I jostled and jolted on Plug's back. First the strudel and now this registration. The war was in Europe, not here. Why all this fuss about where someone was born? Wasn't it where he lived—rather, how he lived—that counted? I worried these questions the way Mr. Whiskers worried the mice he caught; worried so, in fact, that I barely felt the piercing wind the whole ride home.

         
CHAPTER 6         

February 14, 1918
Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

Dear Charlie,

I expect I might not do too badly in that army of yours. I am now quite adept at keeping warm no matter how low the mercury falls. Perilee says their thermometer hit sixty-five below last week.

One of my neighbors, Mr. Durfey, is cutting ice out of Wolf Creek eighteen inches thick. But the snow is banked in beautiful mounds around my claim (oh, how I love to write these words). Sometimes I think I am in a true fairyland.

Perilee and the children were here a few days back and Chase and Mattie nearly wore through my wash bucket. One drift is even with the roof of the barn and they climbed up there and slid down in that bucket over and over again. Their little toes were purple when we finally made them come in. Mattie's stung and itched so. “Do you think I have the froch bite?” she asked me in her sweet worried voice. I bathed her feet in warm water and thus staved off the “froch” bite. Perilee calls her their little magpie, and the nickname fits like a glove. We popped corn and I read aloud a chapter from
Treasure Island.
You should have seen Chase's eyes light up.

Violet and I are eternally grateful that you taught me to pitch. I wish you'd seen it. There was a hungry old wolf after Violet but thanks to her orneriness and my dead aim, I still have fresh milk every morning. I also have the funniest-looking no-tail cow in eastern Montana. Perhaps I will be able to introduce the two of you someday.

There is much to do here and only nine months now in which to do it. But I can't hurry spring, which is when the real work begins. For now, I drool over seed catalogs and study up on how to build a fence. And how to play chess. Though it hasn't done me much good yet with Rooster Jim. Odd duck that he is, he is very kind. Twice now he's given me a sleigh ride into Vida, the nearest town. (Pin dot is more like it!) The three miles from here to Vida will make a pleasant walk come spring. I devour each scrap of newspaper that falls in my grasp. Perilee and Jim keep me well stocked. There is much news of the war, of course, and those wicked Huns. But Charlie, I felt so odd when Perilee told me that Karl had to register as an alien enemy. Yes, he was born in Germany, but he is Karl—no Hun who bayonets babies. If you were here, you could explain this to me as well as you used to explain how to diagram sentences.

I wish I could send you one of Perilee's strudels. She'd even beat Mildred Powell in a baking contest!

Your old friend,
Hattie Inez Brooks

The wind, rumbling like an approaching train, diverted my attention from my letter to Charlie. I shivered in my bed. “I'm not eager to go out there, are you?” Mr. Whiskers answered by burrowing deeper under the quilt. No matter the weather, there were still chores to be done. I hopped out of bed and glanced at the Vida National Bank calendar by the stove as I put the coffee on.

“Happy Valentine's Day to us!” I put the coffee on to boil while I milked. “I wonder if Charlie got the valentine I sent him.” I was certain Mildred would send one loaded with mush, so I'd found the funniest penny postcard I could at Bub Nefzger's little sod-house post office and store in Vida. I figured Charlie could use a laugh more than anything else, so far from home.

I peeked out my one window to be greeted by a sky like a gray flannel crazy quilt. Snow fell so thickly I could barely see the barn. There was nothing for it but to carry on with my chores, pulling my overcoat even tighter about me as I slogged to the barn. I hesitated to turn Plug loose. But I'd seen how clever he was at pawing through the snow to the tender grass below. And I didn't have enough feed to keep him and Violet going all winter. I eased my conscience by giving him an extra-large portion of oats before opening the stable door for him. I fed, watered, and milked my cranky cow.

“Easy there.” I patted Violet's twitching flanks. She shifted back and forth, back and forth, lowing in a most mournful manner. “What is it, girl?” I made up my mind to rummage through Uncle Chester's books for one on animal husbandry. I hadn't saved this varmint from a wolf to lose her to some cow disease.

“Moo-oo,” she moaned again, her brown eyes rolling in her head. Her tail had healed nicely, her nose felt fine, and she gave milk pretty good. Perhaps she wasn't ill after all. But something was certainly unsettling her.

I discovered it for myself when I hefted the milk pail and stepped outside. The wind, brisk before, had worked itself up into a temper. It whirled around my head, threatening to suck the very life out of my lungs. I couldn't catch my breath.

“Plug!” I screamed against the wind. Or tried to. Nature forced my words right back down my throat. Another gust nearly knocked me over. Surely Plug would know enough to get out of this storm. I had to get back to the house.

Icy snow slashed at my head and shoulders. For weeks I'd tripped over that length of rope Uncle Chester had curled up inside the door. I'd let it be, not having another place to stash it. Now I guessed its use: I must fasten one end to the house and one to the barn. If this blizzard lasted more than a day, I'd need a way to get to the barn to take care of Violet.

I set the milk pail inside and grabbed up the rope. Uncle Chester had already fastened a great metal eye to the front of the shack. In dreamier moments, I'd thought I might use it to stake up some hollyhocks come spring. Tying off a secure knot, I let out the rope and fought my way back to the barn. The angry wind snatched away every breath I tried to take. My chest tightened in panic, but I forced myself forward. Icicles formed on my eyelashes. I could not close my eyes. They felt frozen open. And yet I could barely see. The icy wind whipped and scratched worse than Violet's tail ever had. I placed one foot in front of the other in the snow.

One minuscule step at a time, I battled toward the barn, praying for help: “Lord, I can't do this alone.” But no help came. It was up to me. I drew in an icy, ragged breath. I couldn't fail. Couldn't lose my way. Or lose my cow. That thought propelled me forward the last few steps. Finally, finally, I reached the barn, gasping and sobbing for air. My face was raw. I tasted the salt of blood trickling down my cheeks. I worked my shawl over my face. It was a frail barricade, but it did help.

My hands, clumsy in mittens, could not tie the knot at this end. I pried off my mittens and felt as if I'd plunged my hands into a glacier-fed stream. The ache in my joints rocked me back on my heels.

“Come on, come on.” My fingers no longer belonged to my body. They were lifeless wooden sticks at the ends of my hands. “Over, under. Pull it snug.” I nearly had the knot secured when a shrieking gust knocked me to my knees. Again and again, I fought to stand. It seemed hours passed before I finally finished tying the knot. My legs were rags; I leaned heavily on the rope. Left hand, then right hand, then left again. I dragged myself back to the house.

A small dark object perched at the top of the steps. Mr. Whiskers! We both nearly fell into the cabin, I panting, he mewling. The flimsy wood and tar-paper walls were no match for this wind. It bullied its way through every crack. My eyes warmed and grew runny. Another handful of chips in the stove barely took the edge off. I nailed a precious spare blanket over the door and kept feeding the fire.

Uncle Chester's cabin rattled and creaked and moaned and shifted as the wind battered it again and again. It surely could not hold. I pulled on another sweater. I would not leave this cabin. Would not be driven out.

At one point, I heard—what? A noise. A strange noise riding on top of the wild wind. The noise sounded almost human. And it sounded like my name.

I shook my head and listened again. Nothing but the screeching of the storm. But there—listen! It
was
a human voice. A child's voice! I pulled back the blanket, opened the door, and peered out.

At first, I could see nothing but the wildly swirling snow. “Hello?” I called, my voice instantly sucked up by the wind. I tried again.
“Hello!”
This, screeched at the top of my lungs.

I heard the voice again. “Hattie. Miz Hattie!” What I saw next brought me to my knees more suddenly than any slap of wind. A large figure fought its way toward the house. Plug. Dear Plug. And hanging to his tail for dear life—literally for dear life—were Chase and Mattie.

I ran out without a thought for overcoat, hanging on to the rope I'd just strung. “Here, Plug. Here, children,” I screamed, my voice raw. After an eternity, Plug staggered into range. I swept Mattie into my arms and motioned for Chase to take hold of the rope. Head down, he scuffled with snow and wind until he reached it. We made our way, hand over hand, to the cabin. Plug settled himself in the lee of the house, out of the wind.

Mattie's hands felt deathly cold as I brought her inside and began to take off her frozen things.

“What happened?” I could not disguise the tremble of alarm in my voice.

Chase rubbed his own purple hands together and stepped closer to the fire. “We were at school and saw the storm coming. Mr. Nelson told us to get on home. I thought we could make it but…” Chase's voice cracked.

“You're safe now,” I assured him.
Thank you, Lord, for that good horse, who led these children out of the storm.
“And what a hero you are—to find Plug and let him lead you here.”

Chase crumpled to the floor. His shoulders shook with sobs. I turned to distract Mattie, to spare him the further pain of having witnesses to his tears.

“Now, little miss.” I rubbed her feet briskly. “What do I have that will fit you?” By the time I got her dressed in dry things, she looked more scarecrow than six-year-old. But she was content chatting to her doll as her clothes dried by the stove.

“We've got to get Chase warmed up, too.” I surveyed my remaining wardrobe. Not much was appropriate for an eight-year-old boy. I held up my flannel nightgown.

“I'd rather freeze to death,” he said.

“Don't blame you.” In a far corner, I'd made a neat stack of Uncle Chester's clothes. Much too large for me to wear, I'd thought to use the shirts for a quilt and pants for a rag rug but was now very glad I hadn't. The pride—and survival—of an eight-year-old boy depended on a flannel shirt and pair of man's wool pants.

The clothes were a bit sniffy, but then, from my meager experience with Chase, it seemed that eight-year-old boys could be a bit sniffy themselves. “Perfect fit,” I proclaimed.

With both children in dry clothes, my thoughts turned to feeding them. “Have you ever had milk coffee?” I asked.

“Mama don't 'low us to drink coffee,” said Mattie. “Do you think she's worried about us?”

“She knows how clever you are,” I said. “That you'd find a safe place to weather this storm.” That seemed to comfort her.

“She let me drink coffee last harvest,” Chase bragged.

I nodded. “Well, milk coffee's what my mama used to make me when I was little.” I poured some milk out of the pail and into a small kettle and set it on the stove to warm. “Even littler than you, Mattie. So I suspect it will be okay with your mama.” I took three mugs off the shelf. “Now, what do you think about something to go with this coffee?”

“We don't need anything,” answered Chase.

“Yes, please,” answered his more truthful sister. “And Mulie's hungry, too.”

I sliced up some bread. “This isn't too bad with lots of jelly,” I said, setting plates before the kids. Bread making was not one of my more highly developed skills. They both ate bravely, without comment. Perilee had raised them right.

“Say, have either of you ever played Five Hundred?”

Mattie shook her head. “I don't think so,” said Chase.

I got out my one deck of cards and explained the rules. “Mattie and I will be partners,” I said. “So watch out, Chase!”