They pushed things back and started up a singing game—a kind of a scamper, first, in which one stood in the middle, and a boy chased a girl around him until he caught her. Then others like that, with clapping and stamping for music, the Rawlinses as tickled as kids with the noisy wooden floor. Couldn’t have been more childish, actually. “Stole old Blue! And I know who! Here I come, and I see you!” Pretty silly, but plenty loud. Ben and Zeb had to give up.
“If only Effie was here,” Hagar kept saying. She was very much here in their minds, a part of the great day acoming, that had been such a long, long time on the way. With Effie, they had in this one room all who were to have a part in the bust-up of the Dancing Bird range. Or rather, all save one, who was in nobody’s mind; unless, perhaps, the shadow of a wretched and doomed old man sometimes crossed Ben’s thought or Matthilda’s, like a ghost of the living, unasked and unwanted.
The room became hot; when the girls blew their hair out of their eyes, little damp tendrils were left stuck to their foreheads. “Now swing the other! That’s the wrong one! Go right back where you started from….” One rompy, let-yourself-go night like this had to last them all for a long time. Rachel wanted to hold onto it, as if it were the last night in the world.
It was the last, for these people as a group. They were never again all together under the same roof.
Chapter Nine
It began to rain; not in the good old soaker they really needed, but in bursts that doused the prairie hard and briefly, with spells of sunshine and rain-bows between showers. Ben walked out bareheaded in the first rain that fell. He spread his arms to it, and turned his face up to be rained on, getting whopped all over with drops as big as dollars. The Dancing Bird rose, and the grass started. Wintergaunted cows and horses gorged themselves into bloats and colics, but all would be well with them now, for the time being.
In the house the women eyed muddy stains spreading upon the whitewashed roof boards, and swore the sod roof must be shingled over this year for sure. But the house would get no attention now. All day long Jude’s hammer rang at the forge, as he repaired the wagons and shrunk new iron to the wheels. Every few minutes came a yell, the angry squeal of a horse, and a splatter of hoofs, as somebody fought to get the hump out of a range-wild pony.
Every year they had the same argument about whether Rachel was to be allowed out around the hands. When she was little Matthilda had feared she would get her head kicked off, and later that she would hear too much rowdy language. Now that she was a young lady, the objection was obvious. About every third girl in Texas ran off with some young cowhand, who might amount to something later, but showed no signs of it at the time. Rachel always lost the battle, yet won the war. Gradually she would begin sifting out, on useful errands that somehow became more frequent by the hours; till even her mother got used to it, and accepted that nothing was actually happening to her.
This year Ben felt that the whole thing had better be handled a different way. He didn’t say anything, but come afternoon the day after the Rawlinses’ visit, he rode to the house, and hollered for an extra slicker. When Rachel brought it to the stoop, he sung out, “Rachel’s with me, Mama!” And he had her up behind his saddle, and through the Dancing Bird, before objection could be raised.
Only thing, he explained to Rachel, he wanted to see something before he turned her loose on her wild lone, so she would have to stay put where he told her. “Right—square—here,” he said, letting her off on the fence of the round busting corral.
She sat on the top rail, hugging her luck, for here was put on the best show they had. Half a dozen of the best rough-string riders got a few dollars extra for working the round corral. The corrida Ben had hired was full of
“If only Effie was here,” Hagar kept saying. She was very much here in their minds, a part of the great day acoming, that had been such a long, long time on the way. With Effie, they had in this one room all who were to have a part in the bust-up of the Dancing Bird range. Or rather, all save one, who was in nobody’s mind; unless, perhaps, the shadow of a wretched and doomed old man sometimes crossed Ben’s thought or Matthilda’s, like a ghost of the living, unasked and unwanted.
The room became hot; when the girls blew their hair out of their eyes, little damp tendrils were left stuck to their foreheads. “Now swing the other! That’s the wrong one! Go right back where you started from….” One rompy, let-yourself-go night like this had to last them all for a long time. Rachel wanted to hold onto it, as if it were the last night in the world.
It was the last, for these people as a group. They were never again all together under the same roof.
Chapter Nine
It began to rain; not in the good old soaker they really needed, but in bursts that doused the prairie hard and briefly, with spells of sunshine and rain-bows between showers. Ben walked out bareheaded in the first rain that fell. He spread his arms to it, and turned his face up to be rained on, getting whopped all over with drops as big as dollars. The Dancing Bird rose, and the grass started. Wintergaunted cows and horses gorged themselves into bloats and colics, but all would be well with them now, for the time being.
In the house the women eyed muddy stains spreading upon the whitewashed roof boards, and swore the sod roof must be shingled over this year for sure. But the house would get no attention now. All day long Jude’s hammer rang at the forge, as he repaired the wagons and shrunk new iron to the wheels. Every few minutes came a yell, the angry squeal of a horse, and a splatter of hoofs, as somebody fought to get the hump out of a range-wild pony.
Every year they had the same argument about whether Rachel was to be allowed out around the hands. When she was little Matthilda had feared she would get her head kicked off, and later that she would hear too much rowdy language. Now that she was a young lady, the objection was obvious. About every third girl in Texas ran off with some young cowhand, who might amount to something later, but showed no signs of it at the time. Rachel always lost the battle, yet won the war. Gradually she would begin sifting out, on useful errands that somehow became more frequent by the hours; till even her mother got used to it, and accepted that nothing was actually happening to her.
This year Ben felt that the whole thing had better be handled a different way. He didn’t say anything, but come afternoon the day after the Rawlinses’ visit, he rode to the house, and hollered for an extra slicker. When Rachel brought it to the stoop, he sung out, “Rachel’s with me, Mama!” And he had her up behind his saddle, and through the Dancing Bird, before objection could be raised.
Only thing, he explained to Rachel, he wanted to see something before he turned her loose on her wild lone, so she would have to stay put where he told her. “Right—square—here,” he said, letting her off on the fence of the round busting corral.
She sat on the top rail, hugging her luck, for here was put on the best show they had. Half a dozen of the best rough-string riders got a few dollars extra for working the round corral. The corrida Ben had hired was full of
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