Fanny had acted when Father hooked her up to the plow. He laughed as though it were a big joke. "It's no wonder old man Wright traded her off cheap," he said. "He's spent ten years and a dozen sets of harness trying to break her to drive double. I'll sure take my hat off to your old man if he can plow half an acre with her. Why the hell wouldn't the stubborn down-east Yankee let me lend him a good horse to plow with? Say, how much land is he figuring to turn over this year, anyway?"
When I told him Father was going to plow the whole place if Bill held out, he squinted up one eye for a minute, and said, "Go on in and get your milk; I'll give you a lift home."
Father had most of the garden plowed when we got there. The big horses were walking slowly, just one step after another. Fanny was soaking wet and tossing her head up and down, but she was plowing, so I told Fred he'd have to take his hat off to Father.
Father put his foot up on the hub of Fred's buckboard the way he always did. They talked about what would be best to plant on new sod ground. They talked and talked. Then Fred said, "Charlie, how much of this place do you figure on putting into crops?"
Father looked over toward the horses and said, "I'd like to put it all in, Fred, but with the late start I've got, and at the rate I've been going today, I guess I'll be lucky if I get in eighty acres."
Fred just sat chewing for a minute or two, then he squirted a line of tobacco juice between the nigh horse's heels. "You know this prairie land won't produce much in the way of grain crops the first year, and drinks up a hell of a lot of water. A fellow ought to put in crops like peas and beans and alfalfa the first year, so's to get air back into the land. Why don't you put in about ten acres of alfalfa? We've had quite a bit of rain this spring, and if you sow it with oats—and get it in before the first of May—it might get roots down to moisture before it burns out on you. Then you could put in another ten to peas and beans, and you'd have about all you wanted to take care of this first year."
Father stood looking down at his foot on the hub of the buckboard for all of two minutes, then he looked up at Fred and his voice was real quiet when he said, "What are you telling me, Fred—haven't I got any water?"
Fred didn't answer till he'd spit between the off horse's feet and cut another corner of his plug. "Yep, Charlie, you've got water—ten inches. This land will produce forty bushels of wheat to the acre if you've got an inch of water to the acre. Without an inch to the acre, you're lucky if you get any."
Father pushed his hat back and scratched his head a little. "Can I count on getting the full ten inches, Fred?" he asked.
"That's the hell of it," Fred said. "You're tail-ender on the ditch. When the creek's high and the ditch is running full at the dam you'll get your share, but when it's running low and the crops are burning up, you'll be able to lug all you get in a bucket. I won't steal water from you, Charlie, but when only half my own is coming through to me and my crop's suffering, I won't pass it on to you."
Neither of them said anything for a long time, then Fred said, "Your cousin ought to have found out about it before he got you out here. Why, man, you couldn't run ten inches of water to this garden from where the ditch comes onto your place; the ground would drink it all up on the way. I'll tell you what I'll do. I've got two hundred inches with my place. I'll use all the water that comes as far as me for twenty days, then give you the whole head for one. That'll let you give about twenty acres a good soaking often enough to make a crop the first year. After that you might handle as much as twenty-five."
7
I Become a Horseman
FATHER and Mother must have sat up and talked nearly all of that night. I woke just as the moon was slipping down behind the mountains, and there was still a light burning in the kitchen. Mother had brought some
When I told him Father was going to plow the whole place if Bill held out, he squinted up one eye for a minute, and said, "Go on in and get your milk; I'll give you a lift home."
Father had most of the garden plowed when we got there. The big horses were walking slowly, just one step after another. Fanny was soaking wet and tossing her head up and down, but she was plowing, so I told Fred he'd have to take his hat off to Father.
Father put his foot up on the hub of Fred's buckboard the way he always did. They talked about what would be best to plant on new sod ground. They talked and talked. Then Fred said, "Charlie, how much of this place do you figure on putting into crops?"
Father looked over toward the horses and said, "I'd like to put it all in, Fred, but with the late start I've got, and at the rate I've been going today, I guess I'll be lucky if I get in eighty acres."
Fred just sat chewing for a minute or two, then he squirted a line of tobacco juice between the nigh horse's heels. "You know this prairie land won't produce much in the way of grain crops the first year, and drinks up a hell of a lot of water. A fellow ought to put in crops like peas and beans and alfalfa the first year, so's to get air back into the land. Why don't you put in about ten acres of alfalfa? We've had quite a bit of rain this spring, and if you sow it with oats—and get it in before the first of May—it might get roots down to moisture before it burns out on you. Then you could put in another ten to peas and beans, and you'd have about all you wanted to take care of this first year."
Father stood looking down at his foot on the hub of the buckboard for all of two minutes, then he looked up at Fred and his voice was real quiet when he said, "What are you telling me, Fred—haven't I got any water?"
Fred didn't answer till he'd spit between the off horse's feet and cut another corner of his plug. "Yep, Charlie, you've got water—ten inches. This land will produce forty bushels of wheat to the acre if you've got an inch of water to the acre. Without an inch to the acre, you're lucky if you get any."
Father pushed his hat back and scratched his head a little. "Can I count on getting the full ten inches, Fred?" he asked.
"That's the hell of it," Fred said. "You're tail-ender on the ditch. When the creek's high and the ditch is running full at the dam you'll get your share, but when it's running low and the crops are burning up, you'll be able to lug all you get in a bucket. I won't steal water from you, Charlie, but when only half my own is coming through to me and my crop's suffering, I won't pass it on to you."
Neither of them said anything for a long time, then Fred said, "Your cousin ought to have found out about it before he got you out here. Why, man, you couldn't run ten inches of water to this garden from where the ditch comes onto your place; the ground would drink it all up on the way. I'll tell you what I'll do. I've got two hundred inches with my place. I'll use all the water that comes as far as me for twenty days, then give you the whole head for one. That'll let you give about twenty acres a good soaking often enough to make a crop the first year. After that you might handle as much as twenty-five."
7
I Become a Horseman
FATHER and Mother must have sat up and talked nearly all of that night. I woke just as the moon was slipping down behind the mountains, and there was still a light burning in the kitchen. Mother had brought some
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