The Unplowed Sky by Jeanne Williams Page B

the other pan of gingerbread, a sack of cups, and the gallon coffeepot.
    The steam engine gave them a rippling salute, followed by one long blast. “That’s the quittin’ signal,” Shaft said.
    â€œWill the engine shut down?”
    â€œNo. Rory’s injecting cool water into the boiler and shutting all the dampers. That’ll hold the fire and it won’t take long to get up to full steam again.” Shaft squinted at the stacks on either side of the separator. They were still higher than a tall man’s head. “The boys ought to finish this ‘set’ tonight and move on to the next stacks in the morning.”
    Pitchers, three on each stack and one working from the ground behind the separator, forked their last loads of headed grain onto the long extension feeder. This carried wheat spikes into the turning cylinder that separated grain from chaff and straw. On the other end, grain poured into a waiting horse-drawn wagon driven by Mr. Brockett, thin and wiry as his wife was buxom. The straw huffed from the long tubular blower into a growing pile.
    â€œIt must be hard to pitch over the belt like that.” Hallie marveled at the distance the men could toss the spikes.
    â€œIt is, and you can see the wind’s blowing chaff into their faces. That’s why they wear bandannas over their faces and change sides pretty often and take turns pitching from the ground—the hole, they call it. Jack, plunk that gingerbread down on the corner of this oilcloth, will you? And get out the cups.”
    While Mr. Brockett drove off with his grain, the pitchers stuck their pitchforks in the stacks, scrambled down, wiped their faces with bandannas, and hunkered around the oilcloth. Rory and Garth examined their respective machines; but after Rory joined the pitchers with a pleased grin at Hallie, Garth was still tapping away with a hammer at the cylinder.
    â€œMakin’ sure the teeth are tight,” Shaft explained to Hallie. “See, he’s tightenin’ one with a wrench.”
    â€œGarth’ll always find something to fuss over,” Rory said, pushing his hat up from the sweat-drenched golden hair plastered to his forehead. “The way he watches me on that engine you’d think no one but him ever ran one.”
    â€œCan’t blame him for lookin’ after a big investment,” Shaft said peaceably. “He mortgaged his land to buy the tractor and separator four years ago, when wheat sold for twice what it does now, and he got fifteen to twenty-five cents a bushel for threshing headed grain, more for bundled. Prices busted in twenty-one. They ain’t picked up. So this is the fourth year Garth’s tryin’ to pay on a two-bits-a-bushel mortgage with ten-cents-a-bushel fees.”
    Maybe that Was why Garth acted like a bear with a sore tooth, Hallie thought. Something she labeled sympathy tugged at her heart as he stuck the wrench in a clanking pocket and turned from the separator. He moved with easy, long-legged grace, broad shoulders narrowing to waist and flanks. As if on signal, Laird dashed to him and stood up on his hind legs, front paws planted on Garth’s shoulders, white-tipped tail swinging back and forth like an ecstatic pendulum.
    â€œDown, boy!” Garth commanded, but he gave the dog a lingering pat and soft word before he wiped face and hands on a bandanna and reached down for a sandwich. He muttered thanks as Hallie poured his coffee, but didn’t look at her.
    After a moment, he did. Their glances tangled. They both blushed before glancing away. Something like an electric shock radiated through Hallie, sang through her blood. Then Meg came driving the water wagon up to the engine. Still chewing on the sandwich, Garth went to help her drain the water into the engine reservoir. Hallie’s eyes followed him. She felt her face redden when she saw that Rory had noticed.
    â€œLike to see Cecil B. deMille’s Ten