We left the home place behind, mile by slow mile, heading for the mountains, across the prairie where the wind blew forever. 

         At first there were four of us with the one-horse wagon and its skimpy load. Pa and I walked, because I was a big boy of eleven. My two little sisters romped and trotted until they got tired and had to be boosted up into the wagon bed.

         That was no covered Conestoga , like Pa's folks came West in, but just an old farm wagon, drawn by one weary horse, creaking and rumbling westward to the mountains, toward the little woods town where Pa thought he had an old uncle who owned a little two-bit sawmill.

         Two weeks we had been moving when we picked up Mary, who had run away from somewhere that she wouldn't tell. Pa didn't want her along, but she stood up to him with no fear in her voice.

         "I'd rather go with a family and look after kids," she said, "but I ain't going back. If you won't take me, I'll travel with any wagon that will."

         Pa scowled at her, and her wide blue eyes stared back.

         "How old are you?" he demanded.

         "Eighteen," she said. "There's teamsters come this way sometimes.  I'd rather go with you folks. But I won't go back."

         "We're prid'near out of grub ," my father told her. "We're clean out of money. I got all I can handle without taking anybody else." He turned away as if he hated the sight of her. "You'll have to walk," he said.

         So she went along with us and looked after the little girls, but Pa wouldn't talk to her.

         On the prairie, the wind blew. But in the mountains, there was rain.  When we stopped at little timber claims along the way, the homesteaders said it had rained all summer. Crops among the blackened stumps were rotted and spoiled. There was no cheer anywhere, and little hospitality.  The people we talked to were past worrying. They were scared and desperate.

           So was Pa. Each day he traveled twice as far as the wagon, ranging through the woods with his rifle, but he never saw game. He had been depending on venison , but we never got any except as a grudging gift from the homesteaders.

         He brought in a porcupine once, and that was fat meat and good.  Mary roasted it in chunks over the fire, half crying with the smoke. Pa and I rigged up the tarp sheet for a shelter to keep the rain from putting the fire  clean out. The porcupine was long gone, except for some of the fat that Mary had saved, when we came to an old, empty cabin. Pa said we'd have to stop. The horse was wore out , couldn't pull anymore up those grades on  the deep-rutted roads in the mountains.

  Our story so far:  Pa and the three children have met Mary and are traveling west, trying to find work. The weather in the mountains is very, very rainy.

  The Day the Sun Came Out, Part 2: "The Old Cabin"

                 At the cabin, at least there was shelter. We had a few potatoes left and some cornmeal. There was a creek that probably had fish in it, if a person could catch them. Pa tried it for half a day before he gave up.  To this day I don't like fishing. I remember my father's sunken eyes in his gaunt , grim face.

         He took Mary and me outside the cabin to talk. Rain dripped on us from branches overhead.

         "I think I know where we are," he said. "I calculate to get to old John's and back in about four days. There'll be grub in the town, and they'll let me have some whether old John's there or not."

         He looked at me. "You do like she tells you," he warned. It was the first time he had admitted Mary was on earth since we picked her up two weeks before.

         "You're my pardner ," he said to me, "but it might be she's got more brains. You mind what she says."

         He burst out with bitterness , "There ain't anything good left in the world, or people to care if you live or die. But I'll get grub in the town and come back with it."

         He took a deep breath and added, "If you get too all-fired hungry, butcher the horse. It'll be better than starvin' ."

         He kissed the little girls good-bye and plodded off through the woods with one blanket and the rifle.

         The cabin was moldy and had no floor. We kept a fire going under a hole in the roof, so it was full of blinding smoke but we had to keep the fire to dry out the wood.

 

         The third night, we lost the horse. A bear scared him. We heard the racket and Mary and I ran out, but we couldn't see anything in the pitch-dark .

         In gray daylight I went looking for him, and I must have walked fifteen miles. It seemed like I had to have that horse at the cabin when Pa came or he'd whip me. I got plumb lost two or three times and thought maybe I was going to die there alone and nobody would ever know it, but I found the way back to the clearing.

         That was the fourth day, and Pa didn't come. That was the day we ate up the last of the grub.

         The fifth day, Mary went looking for the horse. My sisters whimpered , huddled in a quilt by the fire, because they were scared and hungry.

         I never did get dried out, always having to bring in more damp wood and going out to yell to see if Mary would hear me and not get lost. But I couldn't cry like the little girls did, because I was a big boy, eleven years old.

         It was near dark when there was an answer to my yelling, and Mary came into the clearing.

         Mary didn't have the horse—we never saw that old horse again—but she was carrying something big and white that looked like a pumpkin with no color to it.

         She didn't say anything, just looked around and saw Pa wasn't there yet, at the end of the fifth day.

         "What's that thing?" my sister Elizabeth demanded.

         "Mushroom," Mary answered. "I bet it hefts ten pounds."

         "What are you going to do with it now?" I sneered . "Play with it?"

         "Eat it—maybe," she said, putting it in a corner. Her wet hair hung over her shoulders. She huddled by the fire.

         My sister Sarah began to whimper again. "I'm hungry!" she kept saying.

         "Mushrooms ain't good eating," I said. "They can kill you."

         "Maybe," Mary answered. "Maybe they can. I don't set up to know all about everything, like some people."

         "What's that mark on our shoulder?" I asked her. "You tore your dress on the brush."

         "What do you think it is?" she said, her head bowed in the smoke.

         "Looks like scars , " I guessed.

         "'Tis scars. They whipped me, them I used to live with. Now mind your own business. I want to think."

          (later)

         Elizabeth whimpered, "Why don't Pa come back?"

         "He's coming," Mary promised. "Can't come in the dark. Your pa'll take care of you soon's he can."

         She got up and rummaged around in the grub box.

         "Nothing there but empty dishes," I growled . "If there was anything, we'd know it."

         Mary stood up. She was holding the can with the porcupine grease.

         "I'm going to have something to eat," she said coolly. "You kids can't have any yet. And I don't want any squalling , mind."

         It was a cruel thing, what she did then. She sliced that big, solid mushroom and heated grease in a pan.

         The smell of it brought the little girls out of their quilt, but she told them to go back in such a fierce voice that they obeyed . They cried to break your heart.

         I didn't cry. I watched, hating her.

         I endured the smell of the mushroom frying as long as I could. Then I said, "Give me some."

         "Maybe tomorrow," Mary answered, "but not tonight." She turned to me with a sharp command: "Don't bother me! Just leave me be."

         She knelt there by the fire and finished frying the mushroom.

         If I'd had Pa's rifle, I'd have been willing to kill her right then and there.

         She didn't eat right away. She looked at the brown, fried slice for a while and said, "By tomorrow morning, I guess you can tell whether you want any."

         The little girls stared at her as she ate. Sarah was chewing an old leather glove.

 

         When Mary crawled into the quilts with them, they moved away as far as they could get.

         I was so scared that my stomach heaved, empty as it was.

         Mary didn't stay in the quilts long. She took a drink out of the water bucket and sat down by the fire and looked through the smoke at me.

         She said in a low voice, "I don't know how it will be if it's poison. Just do the best you can with the girls. Because your pa will come back, you know? You better go to bed. I'm going to sit up."

         And so would you sit up. If it might be your last night on earth and the pain of death might seize you at any moment, you would sit up by the smoky fire, wide-awake, remembering whatever you had to remember, savoring life.

         We sat in silence after the girls had gone to sleep. Once I asked, "How long does it take?"

         "I never heard," she answered. "Don't think about it."

         I slept after a while, with my chin on my chest. Maybe Peter dozed that way at Gethsemane as the Lord knelt praying.

Our story so far:  While waiting for Pa to come back, Mary finds a large mushroom and eats some, but she won't let the children have any.

 

The Day the Sun Came Out, Part 4: Comes The Morning