The mountain rocks are hard to climb, the grass sparse and too new to have much strength. Some snow still clings in high places. There are mountain lion here, and bear. Twice they smell the dreadful bear smell and panic, even Kippy, scattering down the mountain, terrified. But some sense draws them together again, and Kippy will not go on until all are worked into a bunch once more.
They travel many weeks, and Tolly is having a harder time of it. She grows slow and irritable, and she starts to resist Kippy. She is now heavy with foal, and she is not getting enough to eat. But Kippy drives her on.
Then one morning as the sun rises they stand on the edge of a steep hill—they have been carefully descending for hours—and gaze at a stretch of flat country dotted with oak trees and pine and carpeted with grass.
They have crossed the coast range. Lean and tired, they look before them, then hurry down into the plain.
For many days they stay here. There is water, and the grass is tall and mature.
Soon they begin to grow fatter, and as they do they start to lift their heads once more and to gaze eagerly toward home.
Even Tolly becomes anxious to go on. She, too, is beginning to know the obsession that has driven Kippy; her colt will be born at home, where the grass is sweetest. Now it is she who starts first in the evening, it is she who is impatient. Between them, she and Kippy herd the little band, though not much herding is needed now, only directing. Kippy always seems to know which way is safest.
There are still foothills to cross, but the winter rain has made strong pasture, the grazing is easy, and the traveling is fast. Some days later they have left the foothills and are working their way between farm fences, down dirt roads—always at night—avoiding the barking dogs. Now Kippy walks out, head swinging. He can smell the sea.
CHAPTER 11
In front of the old barn, under the willow tree, the table is set for supper. There is clam chowder, biscuits, and berry pie. Karen is washed and so is Tom. Even the twins are clean, two scrubbed little girls.
“There will be a brick terrace,” says Mr. Tillman, “here under the tree, and glass doors where the barn doors are. Over there will be a low brick wall.” He is tall and tanned and solid-looking. His brown hair is cut close and his eyes are very blue. John has dark hair and eyes, like the twins. He is perhaps a year older than Tom, but no taller.
“It will be lovely,” Karen says, seeing the old barn as Mr. Tillman sees it.
It is a well-made barn. The ceiling towers high above the loft, the rafters sweep away under a good roof. As Mr. Tillman and John talk the old gray walls begin to sprout windows, the windows grow verandas, the stalls become rooms, and the center part of the barn turns itself into a living room with bookshelves and a fireplace at one end.
“It took some looking,” says Mr. Tillman, “to find the place we wanted.” He leans comfortably back in his chair and lights his pipe. Lisa blows out the match and Jana makes a rude noise at her. Mr. Tillman frowns and J.L. settle down once more.
“When Mama died,” Jana says, “we did not want to stay in the city. We came here. We sold our house and came here. Papa said we were too much for the city.”
“I am a carpenter,” Mr. Tillman continues. “I can make as good a living here, with the village close, as I can in the city, and have time to myself, too. The city’s no place for children. Not these children, anyway. Jana’s right, they overflow into trouble there.” He pauses and draws deeply, and Karen thinks how nice a pipe smells, mixed with the sea air. “And what about you two? Is the city not your kind of place either, then?”
“No, I guess it’s not,” Tom says. He doesn’t say any more, and Mr. Tillman doesn’t ask.
“I could use some strong help,” he says finally, looking at Tom, “if you were planning to stay in this part of the country for a while.”
“We did want to work,” Tom says. “We were going to get jobs somewhere. Could we really be useful? How can you be sure?”
“Suppose I give you a week to try,” Mr. Tillman says. “If you’re a good carpenter, you’ll get room and board. If not,” be knocks his pipe into an empty nail can, “you can go to work in the village and board with us, if you care to stay.”
But what will I do? Karen thinks. I want to work, too. I can drive a nail as well as Tom can.
Mr. Tillman is looking at her. “With two extra pairs of hands,” he says, “we should be pretty snug by fall.” He doesn’t mention school.
Later, as Tom is helping Karen make her straw bed in one of the stalls, Karen says, “We’ll have to tell Mr. Tillman we ran away. We can’t stay without telling him.”
“I know,” Tom says. “Then perhaps he won’t want us.”
“Do you think he’ll make us go away?”
“No,” Tom says, “I don’t.”
“Neither do I,” says Karen. “But what if we get him in trouble?”
“Well, he must be told, then decide for himself if he wants to take the chance,” Tom says. “If he wants us to leave, we will.”
“Yes,” Karen says. “Good night.”
“Good night,” says Tom, leaving her door ajar. They both know Tom is the one to tell Mr. Tillman— it doesn’t need discussing.
“Wait, Tom,” Karen calls after him. “What about the Black Turtle people? What shall we do about them?”
“Wait until I talk to Mr. Tillman, Karen. Maybe he will know something.”
“All right. Good night, Tom.”
“Good night.”
CHAPTER 12
At the first break of day the crow screams. There is a badger in the chicken run, and he doesn’t want it there. There are no chickens, and the crow wouldn’t care if there were, but he doesn’t want the badger in the chicken run.
Sarah Paddyfoot sits up in bed and looks out her window at the sky, just turning light, the moon still hanging there palely. We must get some chickens soon, thinks Sarah, give the old crow something to yell about. He might as well be of some use. He probably won’t yell then. Let the badger get all the chickens. Hmph. She gets out of bed and begins to think about breakfast. With such a racket, everyone will be up soon as you can say Scat.
She dips into the bucket of cold water standing on her orange-crate table, and has a good scrub.
Soon she is dressed and into the kitchen, muttering, “Blackberry jam; biscuits and blackberry jam; scrambled eggs. Wish we had some chickens. Must get that run fixed up. Free food, chickens are. No harm in that. Lord gave us chickens to feed us. Might as well use em!
“Taking the Lord’s name in vain, Sarah?” asks Mr. Tillman, coming into the kitchen.
“Nothing of the kind,” says Sarah. “Said the Lord gave us chickens to feed us. Might as well use ‘em.”
Glancing out the door at the still screaming crow, Mr. Tillman guesses who started this. “Not a bad idea, though,” he thinks aloud. “Got us a young lady to care for them now. S’pose she’s any good with chickens?”
“Sure I am,” says Karen, coming in. “I can take care of chickens. We’re not city children,” she says, preparing the way for Tom, who stands in the door behind her.
“No, sir, we’re not,” Tom says, “and I want to talk to you about that.” Tom waits. Mr. Tillman fills his coffee cup, looks at Tom, then goes out into the yard.
“Running away?” Mr. Tillman helps him.
“Yessir.”
“From your folks?”
“Oh, no, sir. Aunt and uncle.”
“Parents dead?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom says. “It was an uncle and aunt we were sent to live with. They’re the only relatives we have. I guess the next thing would have been a home.”
“What did they do?” asks Mr. Tillman. “Some reason you left, that’s sure.”
Tom looks grateful. “Drank,” he says. “Really drank, Mr. Tillman. For days.”