The Waltons 1 by Robert Weverka Page A

go.”
    After they had walked another hundred yards John-Boy glanced over at her. “The reason I couldn’t come last night was because I was workin’.”
    She made no response, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.
    “I wanted to come, and I tried as hard as I could to get away. I’ve been workin’ for the Baldwin sisters. I’ve been tryin’ to earn enough money to buy Mama a washin’ machine.”
    Jenny shrugged lightly, as if such information was of no interest to her.
    “Anyhow, I didn’t get home till almost midnight. I expect that’s why I slept so late this mornin’. I felt awful about not makin’ it over to see you.”
    Jenny was silent for another minute, then looked far ahead. “Is that the top of the mountain?”
    “Yes it is.”
    She smiled as if to herself and suddenly broke into long strides again. John-Boy kept within ten yards of her this time, all the while wondering what might be going on in her head. If Jenny Pendleton were his sister, Mary Ellen, or Erin, there would never be any doubts over what she was thinking about. Those two never hesitated to let people know their opinions. But Jenny was a complete mystery to him. One minute she talked a blue streak and the next minute she was a sphinx. John-Boy wondered if there was something else he had done that might be disturbing her.
    The only things left from the original Walton cabin were parts of the foundation, the old stone fireplace and chimney, and a few rotted logs. As she approached, Jenny slowed her pace, and then moved reverently into the weed-grown site.
    “Is this it?” she breathed.
    “Uh-huh.” John-Boy moved to her side and stuck his hands in his pockets. He had been here so many times he no longer had any strong reactions to the place. His father had often talked about rebuilding it and moving the family back up the mountain. But the hard times of the Depression had postponed the idea so long it no longer seemed real.
    “What a marvelous old chimney,” Jenny said quietly. She stepped carefully over a log and stood in what would have been the center of the cabin. “Just think, a man and a woman once stood right there and warmed themselves in front of the fire. And children played here on the floor.” She shook her head. “Why I’ll bet the woman cooked right there in the fireplace!”
    “Probably,” John-Boy said. “Everythin’ was make-do back in those days.”
    Jenny moved to a far corner, then turned around, surveying the area. “What were their names?”
    “His was Rome. Hers was Rebecca-Lee.”
    Jenny smiled and crossed to the hearth of the fireplace. She reached in, as if stirring something in a huge cooking pot, then looked sternly over at him.
    “Rome Walton, your supper’s ready!”
    John-Boy stared at her for a minute, then stepped over a log and crouched, as if defending the cabin with a rifle. “Can’t come right now, Becky-Lee! Indians attackin’!”
    “My sakes! Are there many of ’em?”
    John-Boy swung the rifle, tracking an imaginary target. “Pow, pow! Pow! Not any more, Becky-Lee. I think that’s the lot.”
    “You better come to supper now. I can’t keep this venison warm much longer.”
    John-Boy gave her a sour look. “Venison! Again tonight?”
    “I just cook what you bring to the house, Rome. You want bear steak for a change, you’d better go out and shoot yourself a bear!”
    “I shot a bear yesterday! Don’t you remember that one chased you across the cornfield?”
    “Bless my soul! I plumb forgot about that one. So many bears been chasin’ me lately I just can’t keep track anymore. Well, I’ll throw this venison to the wolves out there and cook you up some bear.”
    John-Boy marched across the cabin with the exaggerated gait of a burly frontier hunter. “Becky-Lee, you’re a good old pioneer lady.”
    Jenny’s stern manner suddenly softened as she looked up him. Her voice was barely a whisper. “And you’re a good old pioneer man, Rome Walton.”
    John-Boy was hardly