Prairie Widow (16 page)

At first, Jennifer couldn't find her dugout because it was so well concealed in the down-covered slope. But she saw her water well and the burnt remains of the wagon, and then she knew where to look. Sure enough, there, in the side of the slope, were three tell-tale holes for the windows and door—but only holes?

Something was wrong. The door and window shutters were gone. Could they have blown off during a winter storm? When Jennifer rode still closer, she saw that not only were the door and shutters gone, but their very frames as well.

“Momma, what happened?” asked Emma.

“Someone broke in,” said Peter, growing alarmed and trying to stand in the slowly moving buggy.

Jennifer stopped the buggy and watched the dugout from a distance. No one seemed to be on her property. She started the buggy up again and proceeded even more slowly, keeping her eyes fastened on the three dark sockets.

“Do you think Indians did it?” asked Emma.

“Wilkes!” declared Peter. “He's no good.”

Jennifer pulled up before the dugout. Peter and Emma made as if to jump down. “No! Stay here!” shouted Jennifer. Then she herself descended onto the mat of new grass, and cautiously entered the rectangular opening that had once held the door.

The inside was lit only by the faint light entering from the three openings. But it was plain enough to see what was there: everything that had been left behind during the winter—the rocker, bureau, mantel clock, table and chairs, crates, even the missing door and shutters—all had been stacked up in the middle of the room and set on fire. All were in a cool, charred heap. The pungent odor of smoke still filled the dugout.

“What happened to our things?” came Emma's voice from the doorway.

“I told you to stay in the buggy!”

Peter, meanwhile, slipped past his sister and walked about the rubble. “Wilkes,” he repeated dramatically.

Jennifer searched through the pile to see if there was anything salvageable, her fingers becoming blackened. The daguerrotype of her father was burnt up, as were all her books, including her little
Bridal Greetings.
Jennifer's throat tightened: as it was, Ohio had become an ever vaguer memory; now she had not even her old possessions to help her remember.

“Back into the buggy,” she said, pressing her children outside and up onto the buggy seat.

“Are we going back to the Bakers?” asked Emma.

“To town!” snapped Jennifer.

Jennifer found Bill Wilkes, as usual, in Franz Hoffmann's store, Franz apparently being one of the few people who still spoke with, or at least still deigned to listen to, the land agent. Wilkes, his holster casually untied from his leg, was leaning back on a chair near the pickle barrel in the center of the room, stroking his side-whiskers, which were thicker than ever as if he had not yet shed his winter coat. He tried carrying on a conversation with the distracted merchant, who was tending a farmer couple at the counter. Several other farmers were walking about the cramped store, ignoring Wilkes, or sometimes looking askance at him, while they waited patiently for Franz and examined the various merchandise.

When Jennifer entered the store—her children left in the buggy—Wilkes' expression at first turned sour, his eyes cold. But then he forced himself to smile at her, nod, and even tip his hat.

“Goot morning!” called Franz from his counter, noticing Jennifer's entrance.

The customers in the store also turned to offer their greeting, but Jennifer ignored them and stalked up to the land agent. He raised his eyebrows. He waited for Jennifer to speak, but all she could do for a moment was stand there and fume. “Mrs. Vandermeer?” he prompted.

“You leave me alone,” she hissed.

Everyone in the room froze. Wilkes' raised eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He tilted his chair slowly forward as if this would help him understand better. “Come again?”

“You just leave me alone,” repeated Jennifer, trying to keep herself from crying.

Wilkes rose to his feet to get the upper hand. He tilted his head curiously. “I'm not following.”

One of the customers, Aaron Whittaker—the square-built man with short white hair—stepped toward the two. “Jenny,” he said in his deep, hoarse throat, “is something the matter?”

Jennifer raised her chin as if to pretend she were braver. “I think Mr. Wilkes here knows.”

“I don't think I do,” said Wilkes, squinting at the slender woman.

“You like setting fires, don't you?” asked Jennifer with a forced smile.

At this, Wilkes darkened. “Now, I heard I've been blamed for that fire…”

“Well, add to that the one in my dugout!” said Jennifer resolutely.

“You had a fire in your dugout?” asked Aaron Whittaker.

Jennifer kept her eyes locked on the land agent. “I returned there after staying with the Bakers this winter, and I found that everything there, including my door and window shutters, had been burned.”

“Now, I think I'm beginning to lose my patience with these accusations,” said Wilkes, returning Jennifer's stare.

“Everyone knows it's Indians that set fires out here…”

“Oh no, sir, I won't let you blame the Indians—not for these fires…”

“Oh you won't, won't you,” said Wilkes, trying to hold his temper. “Well, ma'am…” Wilkes stopped. He had by now become almost flustered. He had to start again, “Ma'am, to tell you the truth, I don't care who set them!”

“But we do,” growled Aaron Whittaker, stepping closer.

Wilkes turned to face the short, stocky man. “You're awfully quick to take this lady's side.”

“No,” came back Aaron. “I've given it a lot of thought. We all have. Wilkes, it seems to me you've been trying real hard to get rid of us for some time now.”

“You just watch what you say, Aaron,” returned Wilkes. “You've got no proof…”

“We've got proof enough!” blurted another customer, a lanky man standing by his red-bonneted wife at the counter. The couple, along with everyone else about the room, had their attention fixed on the three by the pickle barrel.

“You like bullying ladies and children, don't you,” growled Aaron, his eyes on Wilkes.

The other customers began to crowd around the two. Jennifer tried stoutly to hold her position. But she was being nudged by the people behind her, all of them edging forward and scolding Bill Wilkes over and around her shoulders.

“Look, Aaron, I'm going to let you walk way,” said Wilkes, “and I'll forget all this.”

“You will, will you?” asked Aaron Whittaker. “And what if I don't forget?”

“So don't forget!” erupted Wilkes, his voice cracking, his face reddening. “What are you going to do? Lynch me?”

“If there was a tree in this town…”

“Well, there ain't!”

“So instead you're going to make good on the property you destroyed.”

“Oh no, I won't pay for something I didn't do!”

“If I have to take it out of your hide,” said Aaron, stepping closer, his fists clenched.

“To hell with you!” shouted Wilkes, pushing past Aaron. But the older man spun him about. Wilkes struck out, his fist grazing Aaron's jaw. Aaron, eyes flashing, charged Wilkes, slamming him back against the wall and pinning him. Wilkes drew his gun.

“No!” shrieked Jennifer.

But even as the gun cleared the holster, the other farmers jumped its owner, several grabbing his arm and wrist. The gun was forced up as it roared, discharging into the ceiling, causing Jennifer to nearly jump out of her skin.

“Let go…” shouted Wilkes, his gun barrel waving over everyone's head. But the farmers dared not let go of his gun arm. Instead, they dragged Wilkes down. “Get… off!” he groaned. One man stepped on his wrist with a heavy workboot, and Wilkes finally released the gun, which thudded onto the floor.

Aaron snatched it away. He stood up and back, breathing heavily. “Wilkes, you just outstayed your welcome in this town,” he croaked. “Someone go get his horse.”

“You can't do this!” yelled Wilkes from the floor, struggling to break free of the many strong, gnarly hands pinning him. “I'm a government agent! Let…me…up!”

The farmers obliged. They lifted Wilkes up and hauled him, kicking and screaming, outside. One of the farmers returned with Wilkes's bay in tow. Following just behind the horse was Frank Turner, who stopped to watch at a distance.

“Now, don't you show your face around here again,” growled Aaron as the rest of the farmers pushed Wilkes up atop his horse.

Wilkes, his hair mussed, his shirttail out, kicked back at them with his pointy boots. “Get away! You've no right! I own property!”

The lanky farmer slapped the horse on his rump, and off the animal trotted, nearly throwing the agent off. But Wilkes grabbed the reins and kept his seat. He stopped his horse at the north edge of town. “You'll pay for this!” he shouted. “All of you!”

Aaron Whittaker pointed the gun at Wilkes, and the land agent spun his horse around and galloped out, the report of the gun spurring him on, though Aaron had aimed it in the air.

Letting the gun rest at his side, Aaron now stepped up to Jennifer, who had taken her place by her frightened children on the buggy seat. With beads of sweat on his broad forehead, Aaron rested a thick hand on the front wheel. “Don't you fret, Jenny,” he said. “We'll fix up your dugout.” Then he turned to the others. “Someone get a crowbar and pick! Wilkes is about to make good!”

Two farmers ran back past Frank Turner. “Mind if we borrow some tools?” one of them called. Frank shrugged his permission. The two went into his shop and returned with the tools. Then, as Jennifer watched, her mouth agape, the farmers set to gouging out the sod walls of Wilkes's storefront—that is, removing from it his door and two windows.

“Someone give a hand here.”

“Careful with the panes.”

“Get the wagon.”

Jennifer glanced out of town and saw the now small, distant figure of Wilkes on the prairie trail. He had stopped to look back. Jennifer was certain he was glaring back at her. Then he turned his horse and continued riding off.

“Sit down,” hissed Jennifer at her children, who were all agog. They sat. Jennifer flicked the reins. She left town, and fortunately in the opposite direction from Bill Wilkes.

By day's end, Jennifer had a new door and two new, if slightly cracked, glass-paned windows. After also rebuilding the stall, the farmers readied to leave, loading up their tools into their wagons. Jennifer stood back from her dugout and marveled at her reclaimed home. What a big difference glass windows made!

But it didn't stop there. All that afternoon and the next day, she received a steady stream of visitors, led off by Lucy Baker, all bearing gifts for their school teacher: blankets, tableware, all-purpose packing crates…

Naturally, Joseph Caulder came, too. He gave Jennifer an old, wooden chair for her dugout and seeds for a vegetable garden. The seeds Jennifer readily accepted, but, fearing Isaac's reaction to losing a chair to her, she said, “No, I couldn't take it…” Joseph left the chair outside her dugout and started hoeing the garden.

Several days later, Karl Pfeffer found outwhat had happened. Not to be outdone by his rival, he brought Jennifer two chickens and a cushioned parlor chair. The chickens Jennifer also readily accepted, but the parlor chair was much too nice to accept as a gift. “Really, Karl, I couldn't…”

But Karl dropped the chickens outside her doorstep and pressed his way inside with the chair, which he placed near the cookstove, shunting Joseph's gift aside. “Goot!” he declared, stepping back and admiring his own addition to the room.

Jennifer sighed but was grateful for all these gifts. And she was flattered that her neighbors should rally around so. Only she was beginning to have second thoughts about having accused Bill Wilkes so quickly and in front of everybody. Perhaps he was telling the truth, after all. Perhaps it had been the Indians.

But, really, she was most concerned that Wilkes might return with an eye towards revenge—and here she was, living in the middle of nowhere. The idea unnerved her, and she prayed that the blessed train would arrive in Four Comers to take her and her children away before anything happened.

So she settled into her newly done home, resumed her routine, even beginning to teach again, but what she did mostly was wait.

And wait.

Days turned into weeks. Outside her dugout door, she witnessed a prairie transformed continually. Those first flowers of the season were eventually joined, and replaced, by others that her children could identify, having learned the names from their school friends—flowers with such descriptive names as bird's-foot violets and Indian paintbrush. But then these flowers, in turn, were soon overwhelmed by the grasses, which all the while were growing taller and darker, so that the flowers were necessarily replaced by longer-stemmed ones, among which were those Peter and Emma called prairie violets and false indigo.

But in all that time, there came no railroad, not even word of one.

And no letter.

Jennifer had hoped she might at least receive a response from her father. Surely he had gotten her letter. Surely he meant to write back. Maybe, thought Jennifer with some amusement, his letter is on the train.

And so the weeks continued to slip by. The days grew still warmer, the grasses ever higher, and still longer-stemmed flowers blossomed, splotching the green sea with rippling rafts of crimsons, yellows, purples, and golds, until they, too, began to drown in the ever-rising tide of grasses.

And it wasn't only the grasses and flowers that were growing. The hems of Emma's dresses had risen to just below the little girl's knees. Peter's pants were above his ankles. And neither child could fit comfortably into his or her shoes. They went barefoot. More and more, it seemed to Jennifer, Peter and Emma were looking like all the other children in the class. Peter, in fact, began to call her “Maw,” what the Baker children called Lucy—a change Jennifer didn't welcome.