The Homesman by Glendon Swarthout

I’m quite capable, I’m trained as a teacher. So whenever you’re ready, I’ll be.”
    She waited. There was a sound high above them. They looked up, and over the white earth the sky was spread like a great, gray tarpaulin and under it, northward, aimed a black arrowhead of geese.
    â€œThree,” said Mary Bee, counting with her fingers. “By this time tomorrow we’ll have our load. From then on, I will be in charge. I will make the decisions. I am responsible. You are simply to help me however you can. Is that clear?”
    It was like lecturing a mule, the only difference being that the man chewed his cud in response while the mule twitched his ears.
    â€œFour,” said she sternly. “You may not now, but one day, when we’ve got them safely home, you’ll see what a grand and glorious thing you’ve accomplished. Money aside, it may be the only unselfish thing you ever do.” She fervored up her voice. “And one day, one day, Mr. Briggs, you’ll thank the Lord He gave you the opportunity.”
    He spat loudly over the side. “School’s out,” he declared, and started the wagon.

N.W. 6, Section 25, Township 10, Range 22W.
    S he hugged him tight and would not let him go. He asked her what was the matter.
    â€œThose wolves,” whimpered Hedda Petzke.
    Otto Petzke tried to joke her out of it. “All you must do, open the door and holler ‘ Raus! Raus! ’ and they will run away.”
    â€œNo, no,” she whimpered.
    He understood now that she was truly frightened. “ Schatzlein, schatzlein ,” he murmured in her ear. Otto Petzke was forty, his wife, Hedda, thirty-six, they had been married sixteen years, and still he called her “sweetheart.” He had an idea.
    Entering the house, he came out with his shotgun and a shell. He had his rifle in the wagon in case he could shoot a buffalo. Hedda had never fired a weapon, she shrank from it, but he showed her how to break the gun and load it and, after much coaxing, to put it to her shoulder and aim. Then, standing behind her, placing her finger on the trigger, so that she would know the sound and kick, he tricked her and pulled it. At the explosion and recoil she cried out and collapsed at his feet, and he thought she’d fainted. But she had not, and when he lifted her she threw her arms around him. They stood together several minutes, their boys, Rolf and Jergen, fifteen and fourteen, watching them impatiently from the wagon, the ox team breathing steam. It was early-morning light. Father and sons were going to the Couteau, eight miles south, to cut wood in the river bottom, for they were out of wood and almost out of hay for the stove and this was only February and only their second thaw. Otto Petzke looked aside at their sod house. The snow had drifted on the north side as high as the roof. What had become of the small, sturdy, spark-eyed woman who had come west with him three years ago? It was this long verdammt winter, or maybe Gerda’s dying. She was thin now, she spoke only when spoken to, lifting a finger tired her, she was a stranger in their midst. And he recalled: when the wolves, hunting in packs, howled outside nights, she turned to him in bed and hugged him as she did now, desperately.
    He forced her from him, holding her arms.
    â€œWe go,” he said. “Here is what you do. In the house I have put out two boxes of shells. If they come near, open the door and shoot the gun, anywhere. They will run away schnell , quick, I promise it. We be back tomorrow, I promise it.” He put the shotgun into her hand.
    â€œ Nein ,” she said, and let it fall.
    He strode from her to the wagon.
    But she did not see them go. She ran, leaving the weapon in the snow, into the house.
    To keep busy that day she sewed, patching the seats and knees of Otto’s and the boys’ spare overalls with flour sacking. It was also to keep her mind off the coming