came to a slough. Here where the ground was lower, water stood in pools among the coarse slough grass.
“I don't know about this,” the teamster said, looking 116
ahead. “It looks pretty bad. But there's no way around; we'll just have to try it. Maybe we can go across so quick the wagon won't have time to sink down.”
As they came nearer to the slough, he said, “Hang on, everybody!”
He picked up his whip and shouted to the horses.
They went fast, and faster, till urged on by his shouts and the whip they broke into a run. Water rose up like wings from the jouncing wagon wheels, while Laura hung on to the ropes and to Mattie with all her might.
Then all was quiet. Safe on the other side of the slough, the teamster stopped the horses to rest.
“Well, we made it!” he said. "The wheels just didn't stay in one place long enough to settle through the sod.
If a fellow got stuck in there, he'd be stuck for keeps."
It was no wonder that he seemed relieved, for as Laura looked back across the slough she could see no wagon tracks. They were covered with water.
Driving on across the prairie, they came finally to a little new claim shanty, standing alone. About a mile away to the west was another, and far away to the east they could barely see a third.
“This is the place, ma'am,” the teamster said. “I'll unload and then haul you a jag of hay to burn, from that place a mile west. Fellow that had it last summer, quit and went back east, but I see he left some haystacks there.”
He unloaded the wagon into the shanty, and set up the 117
cook-stove. Then he drove away to get the hay.
A partition cut the shanty into two tiny rooms. Mrs.
McKee and Laura set up a bedstead in the room with the cook-stove, and another in the other room. With the table, four small wooden chairs, and the trunk, they filled the little house.
“I'm glad I didn't bring anything more,” said Mrs.
McKee.
“Yes, as Ma would say, enough is as good as a feast,”
Laura agreed.
The teamster came with a load of hay, then drove away toward Manchester. Now there were the two straw-ticks to fill with hay, the beds to make, and dishes to be unpacked. Then Laura twisted hay into sticks, from the little stack behind the shanty, and Mattie carried it in to keep the fire going while Mrs. McKee cooked supper. Mrs. McKee did not know how to twist hay, but Laura had learned during the Hard Winter.
As twilight came over the prairie, coyotes began to howl and Mrs. McKee locked the door and saw that the windows were fastened.
“I don't know why the law makes us do this,” she said.
“What earthly good it does, to make a woman stay on a claim all summer.”
“It's a bet, Pa says,” Laura answered. “The government bets a man a quarter-section of land, that he can't stay on it five years without starving to death.”
“Nobody could,” said Mrs. McKee. "Whoever makes 118
these laws ought to know that a man that's got enough money to farm, has got enough to buy a farm. If he hasn't got money, he's got to earn it, so why do they make a law that he's got to stay on a claim, when he can't? All it means is, his wife and family have got to sit idle on it, seven months of the year. I could be earning something, dressmaking, to help buy tools and seeds, if somebody didn't have to sit on this claim. I declare to goodness, I don't know but sometimes I believe in woman's rights. If women were voting and making laws, I believe they'd have better sense. Is that wolves?"
“No,” Laura said. “It's only coyotes, they won't hurt anybody.”
They were all so tired that they did not light the lamp, but went to bed, Laura and Mattie in the kitchen and Mrs. McKee in the front room. When everyone was quiet, the loneliness seemed to come into the shanty.
Laura was not afraid, but never before had she been in such a lonely place without Pa and Ma and her sisters.
The coyotes were far away, and farther. Then they were gone. The slough was so far away that
“I don't know about this,” the teamster said, looking 116
ahead. “It looks pretty bad. But there's no way around; we'll just have to try it. Maybe we can go across so quick the wagon won't have time to sink down.”
As they came nearer to the slough, he said, “Hang on, everybody!”
He picked up his whip and shouted to the horses.
They went fast, and faster, till urged on by his shouts and the whip they broke into a run. Water rose up like wings from the jouncing wagon wheels, while Laura hung on to the ropes and to Mattie with all her might.
Then all was quiet. Safe on the other side of the slough, the teamster stopped the horses to rest.
“Well, we made it!” he said. "The wheels just didn't stay in one place long enough to settle through the sod.
If a fellow got stuck in there, he'd be stuck for keeps."
It was no wonder that he seemed relieved, for as Laura looked back across the slough she could see no wagon tracks. They were covered with water.
Driving on across the prairie, they came finally to a little new claim shanty, standing alone. About a mile away to the west was another, and far away to the east they could barely see a third.
“This is the place, ma'am,” the teamster said. “I'll unload and then haul you a jag of hay to burn, from that place a mile west. Fellow that had it last summer, quit and went back east, but I see he left some haystacks there.”
He unloaded the wagon into the shanty, and set up the 117
cook-stove. Then he drove away to get the hay.
A partition cut the shanty into two tiny rooms. Mrs.
McKee and Laura set up a bedstead in the room with the cook-stove, and another in the other room. With the table, four small wooden chairs, and the trunk, they filled the little house.
“I'm glad I didn't bring anything more,” said Mrs.
McKee.
“Yes, as Ma would say, enough is as good as a feast,”
Laura agreed.
The teamster came with a load of hay, then drove away toward Manchester. Now there were the two straw-ticks to fill with hay, the beds to make, and dishes to be unpacked. Then Laura twisted hay into sticks, from the little stack behind the shanty, and Mattie carried it in to keep the fire going while Mrs. McKee cooked supper. Mrs. McKee did not know how to twist hay, but Laura had learned during the Hard Winter.
As twilight came over the prairie, coyotes began to howl and Mrs. McKee locked the door and saw that the windows were fastened.
“I don't know why the law makes us do this,” she said.
“What earthly good it does, to make a woman stay on a claim all summer.”
“It's a bet, Pa says,” Laura answered. “The government bets a man a quarter-section of land, that he can't stay on it five years without starving to death.”
“Nobody could,” said Mrs. McKee. "Whoever makes 118
these laws ought to know that a man that's got enough money to farm, has got enough to buy a farm. If he hasn't got money, he's got to earn it, so why do they make a law that he's got to stay on a claim, when he can't? All it means is, his wife and family have got to sit idle on it, seven months of the year. I could be earning something, dressmaking, to help buy tools and seeds, if somebody didn't have to sit on this claim. I declare to goodness, I don't know but sometimes I believe in woman's rights. If women were voting and making laws, I believe they'd have better sense. Is that wolves?"
“No,” Laura said. “It's only coyotes, they won't hurt anybody.”
They were all so tired that they did not light the lamp, but went to bed, Laura and Mattie in the kitchen and Mrs. McKee in the front room. When everyone was quiet, the loneliness seemed to come into the shanty.
Laura was not afraid, but never before had she been in such a lonely place without Pa and Ma and her sisters.
The coyotes were far away, and farther. Then they were gone. The slough was so far away that
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