Hattie Big Sky (9 page)

         
CHAPTER 10         

April 2, 1918
Three miles north and west of Vida, Montana

Dear Charlie,

I hope to send you a packet soon—don't worry! It's not another pair of socks. I'm glad the pair I made brought you and your chums such amusement. What I lack in knitting prowess I am making up for with a quilting needle. Perilee is pleased by my progress. To be honest, so am I. I'm sure you have guessed that I am making you a quilt. I call it Charlie's Propeller. It's my version of a windmill pattern. It's in honor of your promotion to mechanic. It's not waterproof, but it should help keep you warm.

Speaking of warm, my chess-playing skills are heating up. Rooster Jim was by last week for another chess game and I held my own, though he beat me. He heard some troublesome news from his cousin over to Lewiston. A mob marched on the high school there, pulled out all the German textbooks, and had a bonfire. It was a miracle the school didn't burn. One of the teachers was so upset, she quit and left town.

I try to keep focused on my goal, which is to prove up. Karl showed me how to test the earth to see if it is ready to plant. His method is much preferred to Rooster Jim's, which is to taste it. Karl grabs a handful and squeezes it in his hand. Mine is still too clumpy; the seeds would rot. Bub Nefzger says not to worry, that I may plant as late as the middle of next month, but I hope I don't have to wait that long.

Do you laugh at my little farm reports? It seems humorous to me sometimes that I fret over soil and weather and such. My worries are not all selfish. Being a farmer is now very patriotic. We are encouraged to grow as much as we can. Think! My wheat may be some soldier's supper.

I hope not yours, however. I hope you are home well before my crop is harvested come August.

Your friend,
Hattie Inez Brooks

I took a hard look at my pocketbook. Any moths in there would soon starve. I thought of Moses leading the Israelites through the desert and God answering their hunger by raining down manna from heaven. I studied the never-ending Montana sky. No sign of manna or anything else falling from it anytime soon. With no small amount of concern, I spelled out my situation in daily prayer. “Lord, I need a bit of income to see me through to harvest,” I explained. “I'm not particular but would appreciate Your help.” I was eager to once again experience the Lord's mysterious ways.

With no ideas—and no lightning-bolt suggestions from the heavens—I finished my barn chores. Spring was firmly nudging winter on its way. The prairie was speckled with purple prairie crocus, yellow bells, and furry kittentails I couldn't resist petting as I passed. I thought about gathering up a bouquet and taking them to Perilee. As tempting as that thought was, there were fence posts calling my name. I gathered up the fencing supplies and went out to work.

A familiar horse meandered its way toward me with a familiar rider. Traft Martin had taken it upon himself to pick up my mail from Bub Nefzger's in Vida and bring it out when he was headed my way. It saved me the walk to town, but I wished he wouldn't do it.

“You're making great progress.” He slipped off Trouble, landing lightly on well-worn boots.

“Will it ever end?” I pounded in another staple.

Traft took off his hat and hung it on the pommel. A cowlick at the back of his head stood up like a question mark. I could smell the warm pine scent of hair tonic. “Want me to pound for a while?”

My arms begged me to say yes. But my stubborn heart answered, “No. No, thanks.”

“I brought your mail.” Traft patted his coat pocket. “And some newspapers. I know how much you love to read them.”

“Thank you.” I wriggled my hand out of my work glove.

He hesitated, as if he was going to say something else. Then he handed me the packet. “Another letter from France,” he said.

“My school chum, Charlie,” I answered the question in his voice, then tucked the letters in my lunch basket.

“A good friend?” His words made my stomach turn a somersault for some reason.

“We've known each other a long time. He gave me my cat.”

Traft nodded briskly, as if shaking that bit of information into his mind's proper file.

“I'd better get back at it,” I said.

He moved toward his horse. “Good afternoon, Hattie.”

“Afternoon.” I started hammering before he'd even stepped into the stirrup.

“Oh, there was something else.” He stopped. “A dance. At the Vida Community Hall. Wondered if you'd be going?”

“I don't dance.” I could imagine Aunt Ivy's shrieks of disapproval:
Next thing, you'll be drinking and carrying on!

“What if I said it was your patriotic duty?” he asked. “It's to raise money for the Liberty Bond drive.”

I stiffened at the word
patriotic,
still on edge from that message left on my table. “Like joining the Loyalty League?”

He started. “What?”

I told him about finding the note. “I'm not sure what it means.”

He toyed with Trouble's reins. He acted like he had something to say, so I waited. “Have you…” He stroked his horse's neck. “Have you said anything about the war? Given anyone the impression that you might be against it?”

“I've never had call to discuss it much with anyone,” I said. Except Rooster Jim, but that was none of Traft's affair.

“Well, then, maybe…” he paused again. “You know, Hattie, folks are looking at one another hard these days.”

I waggled the hammer in my hand. “If anyone's looking at me, all they see is unpatriotic activity like picking rocks and setting fence posts.” I forced a laugh.

“Don't take such things lightly.” His tone had cooled more quickly than a doused fire.

“Name one thing I've done that might cause someone to suspect me of being unpatriotic.” The current running under this conversation had changed. I felt as if I might be caught in a whirlpool at any moment. No matter how charming he was, Traft was still head of the County Council of Defense. Still his mother's son.

“I know this is not going to sit well with you, but I'm going to say it flat out. There's talk about Karl Mueller.”

“What?” I nearly dropped my hammer. “What kind of talk?”

“You heard about the Verne Hamilton case over in Roundup? Been charged with making seditious comments, saying he wouldn't go to war, that they'd have to take him feet first if he was conscripted?”

I nodded. I'd read about it in the paper.

“Over to Bub's one day, Karl said the man had the right to say such things. Said it was free speech and all that.”

“And isn't it?”

“It's war, Hattie.” He looked me in the eye. “And Karl's an alien enemy.”

“He's no enemy,” I said. “He's the finest man you'd ever want to meet.”

Traft smiled at me, but it was an Aunt Ivy smile, the kind she wore when she would tell me the switching I was about to receive was for my own good. “Last thing I'd want to do is upset you. I told you because I thought you'd want to know.” He shrugged. “Maybe some kids were playing a prank on you. With that notice, I mean.”

If he was trying to shift the topic, it didn't work. “Traft, he's my friend.”

“I know.” He nodded. “And he's lucky for that.”

He swung his hat off the saddle and snugged it on his head. “About the dance—I didn't mean to set you off. It
is
for a good cause. And I hope, if you come, you save one dance for me.” Now he flashed a smile so warm and genuine it made me think perhaps I'd taken offense where none was meant.

I smiled back. “Your toes will be sorry. I'm not much of a dancer.”

“I'm a good teacher,” he said.

“I best get back to work.” I turned toward the fence to hide my red cheeks.

“See you at the dance, Hattie.” In one movement he was up on Trouble. They wheeled around and pounded away.

My heart pounded to the rhythm of Trouble's hooves. I felt behind me, found the stone boat, and sat against it. Being with that man was like walking the circus tightrope. I breathed deeply a few times to slow my heart. Of course he was right about the pamphlet. No doubt a prank. And, really, he was doing me a favor, telling me about Karl. I could speak to him, let him know to be more careful about what he said in town. Maybe Traft and I were more alike than I realized. Him, stubborn about things that mattered to him, like his ranch and this country. Me, I had my own stubborn streak, still going strong no matter how many times Aunt Ivy had tried to switch it out of me.

I pictured myself at the dance, trying hard not to step on Traft's feet. One dance and he'd find another partner, you could bet on that. Wouldn't Mildred Powell be fit to be tied to see me dancing with such a charmer? I thought back to the eighth-grade graduation ball. “Oh, Hattie,” she'd said to me, “how clever of you to dress so plainly for the event.” Her friends had laughed, too. I would've left right then, but good old Charlie had stepped up and asked me to waltz. I'm sure his feet regretted the invitation, but Charlie never said a word about my clumsiness. “You look pretty in blue,” he'd said.

I sighed to remember his kindness. Then I looked down the row of fence posts waiting for wire. And sighed once more.

I hefted the hammer and began again, keeping at it until I couldn't lift the hammer one more time. Then I tucked into the lunch I'd packed, sipping cool well water from a glass jar. With a little imagination, I could envision I was sipping a strawberry soda from Chapman's Drug back in Arlington. Or an icy bottle of sarsaparilla from Uncle Holt's store. Imagining even turned the cold pancakes, mushy apple, and handful of dried fruit into a tasty meal. Brushing off my hands, I reached for my mail. The papers would be dessert after supper and the evening chores.

Charlie's letter was terse. He mentioned finally receiving a letter from me, and working twenty-four-hour shifts at the airfield. He concluded:

Men are falling here, but more from various ailments than the war. Our unit's managed to avoid it thus far, but the Spanish influenza is taking its toll. It's as bad an enemy as the Huns. Yesterday we passed a line of men blinded by mustard gas—they stumbled along like a string of elephants, one man's hand on the next man's shoulder.

The next section of Charlie's letter was sliced out by the censor's knife. I read on:

I met three fellows from Montana—Great Falls, I think. They are mad to get a baseball game up soon. I may join in and show them what Iowa can do!

Your (lonesome) chum, Charlie

I closed the letter with a shiver. The spring sun seemed to have cooled several degrees. Charlie had been so excited when he signed up. He'd been going to save the world! And how excited
I'd
been to get Uncle Chester's letter and leave Aunt Ivy behind. I guessed Charlie and I were in the same boat. We'd both signed on for something we'd envisioned as heroic and glamorous. The heroism and glamour might be there somewhere, but you had to dig and scrape and scrabble through the dirt, pain, and misery to find it. Assuming you
could
find it.

I shook such thoughts out of my head and reached for the letter from Uncle Holt. It was a thick one. It wasn't like him to send such a long letter. Perhaps he'd tucked in another magazine article, as he had a few letters back.

I tore open the envelope and a slip of paper fluttered to the ground.
Pay to the order of Miss Hattie Inez Brooks: $15.
A check? I looked again. It was from the
Arlington News.
I shuffled through Uncle Holt's packet for an explanation.

Dear Hattie,

Your letters have provided me such entertainment and enlightenment that I have shared them with Mr. George Miltenberger, editor of the
Arlington News.
He concurred that such lively observations about homestead life would be of general interest to his readership. As you will see from his letter (enclosed), he hopes to publish more of your stories. I hope you can accommodate him.