under the
table, and they stored away some little square-cut pieces of taffy there. Afterward, one piece of taffy seemed to be stuck
down; he wore out his fingers for months trying to break it loose. Years later he found out that the stubbornly stuck taffy
was really the ironhead of a lag screw that you couldn’t see where it was, but only feel with your fingers.
He found some winter clothes he sure could use, including some heavy socks Martha and Lucy had knitted for him. Nothing
that had belonged to Martha and the girls was in the closets. He supposed some shut trunks standing around held what ever
of their stuff the Comanches had left. He went to a little chest that had been Debbie’s, with some idea of taking something
of hers with him, as if for company; but he stopped himself before he opened the chest. I got these hands she used to hang
onto, he told himself. I don’t need nothing more. Except to find her.
He was in no hurry to get back. He wanted to miss supper at the Mathisons for fear he would lash out at Amos in front of the
others; so, taking his time about everything he did, he managed to fool away most of the day.
A red glow from the embers in the stove was the only light in the Mathison house as he put away the good little team, but
a lamp went up in the kitchen before he went in. Laurie was waiting up, and she was put out with him.
“Who gave you the right to lag out till all hours, scaring the range stock?”
“Amos and me always night on the prairie,” he reminded her. “It’s where we live.”
“Not when I’m waiting up for you.” She was wrapped twice around in a trade-blanket robe cinched up with a leather
belt. Only the little high collar of her flannel nightgown showed, and a bit of blue-veined instep between her moccasins and
the hem. Actually she had no more clothes than he had ever seen her wear in her life; there was no reason for the rig to seem
as intimate as it somehow did.
He mumbled, “Didn’t go to make work,” and went to throw his rag-pickings in the grandmother room.
Amos was not in his bunk; his saddle and everything he had was gone.
“Amos rode on,” Laurie said unnecessarily.
“Didn’t he leave no word for me?”
“Any word,” she corrected him. She shook down the grate and dropped fresh wood in the firebox. “He just said, tell you he had
to get on.” She pushed him gently backward against a bench, so that he sat down. “I mended your stuff,” she said. “Such as
could be saved.”
He thought of the saddle-worn holes in the thighs of his other drawers. “Goddle mightly,” he whispered.
“Don’t know what your purpose is,” she said, “getting so red in the face. I have brothers, haven’t I?”
“I know, but—”
“I’m a woman, Martie.” He had supposed that was the very point. “We wash and mend your dirty old stuff for you all our lives.
When you’re little, we even wash you. How a man can make out to get bashful in front of a woman, I’ll never know.”
He couldn’t make any sense out of it. “You talk like a feller might just as leave run around stark nekkid.”
“Wouldn’t bother me. I wouldn’t try it in front of Pa, was I you, so long as you’re staying on.” She went to the stove to
fix his supper.
“I’m not staying, Laurie. I got to catch up with Amos.”
She turned to see if he meant it. “Pa was counting on you. He’s running your cattle now, you know, along with his own—”
“Amos’ cattle.”
“He let both winter riders go, thinking you and Amos would be back. Of course, riders aren’t too hard to come by. Charlie
MacCorry put in for a job.”
“MacCorry’s a good fast hand,” was all he said.
“I don’t know what you think you can do about finding Debbie that Amos can’t do.” She turned to face him solemnly, her eyes
very dark in the uneven light. “He’ll find her now, Mart. Please believe me. I know.”
He waited, but she went back to the skillet
table, and they stored away some little square-cut pieces of taffy there. Afterward, one piece of taffy seemed to be stuck
down; he wore out his fingers for months trying to break it loose. Years later he found out that the stubbornly stuck taffy
was really the ironhead of a lag screw that you couldn’t see where it was, but only feel with your fingers.
He found some winter clothes he sure could use, including some heavy socks Martha and Lucy had knitted for him. Nothing
that had belonged to Martha and the girls was in the closets. He supposed some shut trunks standing around held what ever
of their stuff the Comanches had left. He went to a little chest that had been Debbie’s, with some idea of taking something
of hers with him, as if for company; but he stopped himself before he opened the chest. I got these hands she used to hang
onto, he told himself. I don’t need nothing more. Except to find her.
He was in no hurry to get back. He wanted to miss supper at the Mathisons for fear he would lash out at Amos in front of the
others; so, taking his time about everything he did, he managed to fool away most of the day.
A red glow from the embers in the stove was the only light in the Mathison house as he put away the good little team, but
a lamp went up in the kitchen before he went in. Laurie was waiting up, and she was put out with him.
“Who gave you the right to lag out till all hours, scaring the range stock?”
“Amos and me always night on the prairie,” he reminded her. “It’s where we live.”
“Not when I’m waiting up for you.” She was wrapped twice around in a trade-blanket robe cinched up with a leather
belt. Only the little high collar of her flannel nightgown showed, and a bit of blue-veined instep between her moccasins and
the hem. Actually she had no more clothes than he had ever seen her wear in her life; there was no reason for the rig to seem
as intimate as it somehow did.
He mumbled, “Didn’t go to make work,” and went to throw his rag-pickings in the grandmother room.
Amos was not in his bunk; his saddle and everything he had was gone.
“Amos rode on,” Laurie said unnecessarily.
“Didn’t he leave no word for me?”
“Any word,” she corrected him. She shook down the grate and dropped fresh wood in the firebox. “He just said, tell you he had
to get on.” She pushed him gently backward against a bench, so that he sat down. “I mended your stuff,” she said. “Such as
could be saved.”
He thought of the saddle-worn holes in the thighs of his other drawers. “Goddle mightly,” he whispered.
“Don’t know what your purpose is,” she said, “getting so red in the face. I have brothers, haven’t I?”
“I know, but—”
“I’m a woman, Martie.” He had supposed that was the very point. “We wash and mend your dirty old stuff for you all our lives.
When you’re little, we even wash you. How a man can make out to get bashful in front of a woman, I’ll never know.”
He couldn’t make any sense out of it. “You talk like a feller might just as leave run around stark nekkid.”
“Wouldn’t bother me. I wouldn’t try it in front of Pa, was I you, so long as you’re staying on.” She went to the stove to
fix his supper.
“I’m not staying, Laurie. I got to catch up with Amos.”
She turned to see if he meant it. “Pa was counting on you. He’s running your cattle now, you know, along with his own—”
“Amos’ cattle.”
“He let both winter riders go, thinking you and Amos would be back. Of course, riders aren’t too hard to come by. Charlie
MacCorry put in for a job.”
“MacCorry’s a good fast hand,” was all he said.
“I don’t know what you think you can do about finding Debbie that Amos can’t do.” She turned to face him solemnly, her eyes
very dark in the uneven light. “He’ll find her now, Mart. Please believe me. I know.”
He waited, but she went back to the skillet
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