“Do you care if they think I’m flighty,
Will?”
“Me? Why, I wouldn’t care if the
whole world thought you were this or that or anything
else. You’re my—well, you’re
my soul!”
He was an undefined mass, as solid-seeming as rock.
She found his sleeve, pinched it, cried, “I’m
glad! It’s sweet to be wanted! You
must tolerate my frivolousness. You’re
all I have!”
He lifted her, carried her into the house, and with
her arms about his neck she forgot Main Street.
“We’ll steal the whole day, and go hunting.
I want you to see the country round here,” Kennicott
announced at breakfast. “I’d take
the car—want you to see how swell she runs
since I put in a new piston. But we’ll
take a team, so we can get right out into the fields.
Not many prairie chickens left now, but we might just
happen to run onto a small covey.”
He fussed over his hunting-kit. He pulled his
hip boots out to full length and examined them for
holes. He feverishly counted his shotgun shells,
lecturing her on the qualities of smokeless powder.
He drew the new hammerless shotgun out of its heavy
tan leather case and made her peep through the barrels
to see how dazzlingly free they were from rust.
The world of hunting and camping-outfits and fishing-tackle
was unfamiliar to her, and in Kennicott’s interest
she found something creative and joyous. She
examined the smooth stock, the carved hard rubber
butt of the gun. The shells, with their brass
caps and sleek green bodies and hieroglyphics on the
wads, were cool and comfortably heavy in her hands.
Kennicott wore a brown canvas hunting-coat with vast
pockets lining the inside, corduroy trousers which
bulged at the wrinkles, peeled and scarred shoes,
a scarecrow felt hat. In this uniform he felt
virile. They clumped out to the livery buggy,
they packed the kit and the box of lunch into the
back, crying to each other that it was a magnificent
day.
Kennicott had borrowed Jackson Elder’s red and
white English setter, a complacent dog with a waving
tail of silver hair which flickered in the sunshine.
As they started, the dog yelped, and leaped at the
horses’ heads, till Kennicott took him into
the buggy, where he nuzzled Carol’s knees and
leaned out to sneer at farm mongrels.
The grays clattered out on the hard dirt road with
a pleasant song of hoofs: “Ta ta ta rat!
Ta ta ta rat!” It was early and fresh, the air
whistling, frost bright on the golden rod. As
the sun warmed the world of stubble into a welter
of yellow they turned from the highroad, through the
bars of a farmer’s gate, into a field, slowly
bumping over the uneven earth. In a hollow of
the rolling prairie they lost sight even of the country
road. It was warm and placid. Locusts trilled
among the dry wheat-stalks, and brilliant little flies
hurtled across the buggy. A buzz of content filled
the air. Crows loitered and gossiped in the sky.
