Jane helped Sherm press autumn leaves and pack a huge box of nuts to send home. His mother wrote back that his father hadn't showed as much interest in anything for weeks, as he did in the nuts. They seemed to carry him back to his own boyhood.

Mr. Dart seldom left his bed now, and Sherm's mother told but little of his condition. Sherm understood her silence only too well. Chicken Little noticed that he always worked hard and late the days he heard from home. She began to watch for the letters herself, and to mount guard over the boy when he looked specially downcast, teasing him into going for a gallop or wheedling him into making taffy or playing a game of checkers. She got so she recognized Sherm's blue devils as far off as she could see him.

Sherm did not notice this for some time or suspect she was looking after him, but one day he remarked carelessly when she thought she had been specially clever:

"Chicken Little, don't make a mollycoddle of me. A man has to learn to take what comes his way without squealing."

"Yes, Sherm, but if you get thorns in your hand, it's better to try to pull them out than to go on pushing them in deeper, isn't it? I know when I was a kid, it always helped a lot to have Mother kiss it better."

"How'd you get so wise, Chicken Little?" The lad smiled his wry smile.

"Don't make fun of me, please, Sherm."

"Make fun of you? Lady Jane, I've been taking off my hat to you for a week. How in the d.i.c.kens you girls find out exactly what's going on inside a chap beats my time. It's mighty good of you to put up with my glooming and try to cheer me along. Maybe I don't look grateful, but I am." Sherm was eager to make this acknowledgment, but found it more trying than he had antic.i.p.ated. He revenged himself by starting in to tease.

"Say, I wish you'd try your hand at this splinter--I can't budge the critter."

Jane flew for a needle, unsuspecting. The splinter didn't look serious, but she painstakingly dug it out.

"Is that all right?" she demanded, looking up to encounter a wicked glint in Sherm's gray eyes.

"Hm-n, aren't you going to put any medicine on it?"

"Medicine?"

"Well, you know you said it helped." Sherm was grinning impishly.

"Sherman Dart, I think you're too mean for words!" She was about to turn away affronted when she had an inspiration.

"Mother," she called, "O Mother!"

Mrs. Morton had been placidly sewing in the sitting room while the young people were studying their lessons by the dining-room table. She came to the door, inquiring.

"Mother, Sherm's had a splinter in his finger and he wants you to kiss it better."

Sherm started to protest, but Mrs. Morton did not stop to listen.

"Jane, I think that kind of a joke is very ill-timed, making your poor mother get up and come to you for nothing. You must remember I am not as young as I once was."

Mrs. Morton departed with dignity.

"Now will you be good?" chuckled Sherm.

"Oh, I guess I'm square," Chicken Little retorted, going back to her lessons.

Mrs. Morton had said truly that she was not so young as formerly. She had not been well all fall. Dr. Morton had persuaded her to see another physician, who, having a.s.sured her that she was merely run down, had prescribed the usual tonic. He had told Dr. Morton, however, that her heart action was weak and warned him to guard her against shocks of any kind and to have her rest as much as possible. This had agreed with the doctor's own diagnosis of her condition, and the family had been trying to save her from all exertion. So Chicken Little was a tiny bit conscience-stricken.

High winds and more pressing farm duties had interfered with running the fire guards. It was not until the week before Thanksgiving that the men got at it, then they succeeded only in protecting the stacks. They had intended to finish the job the following morning, but one of the neighbors, pa.s.sing through the lane, stopped to tell Dr. Morton of a sale of yearlings to be held the next afternoon in the neighboring county.

"It must be part of the Elliott herd. They're three-quarters bred shorthorn; I'd like mighty well to pick up a bunch of them. We have plenty of feed for any ordinary winter." Dr. Morton was talking the matter over with Frank after supper.

"Suppose we ride over, Father, it's only about twenty miles. We can start early--we don't need to buy unless they are actually a bargain."

They were off at six the following morning, planning to return the same day. Dr. Morton, however, warned his wife not to be anxious if she did not see them before the next afternoon. If they bought the steers, they would not try to drive them home the same day.

The morning was bright and pleasant, but the wind rose toward mid-day and was blowing a young gale by the time Chicken Little returned from school at half-past four. Mrs. Morton began worrying lest the doctor and Frank had not wrapped up sufficiently.

"Why, it isn't cold yet, Mrs. Morton. In fact, it is astonishingly warm for November. And there's the queerest, yellowish haze I have ever seen." Sherm said this to rea.s.sure her.

"Probably dust," replied Mrs. Morton carelessly, relieved from her anxiety about her family.

Chicken Little hurried through her supper and went over to see Marian.

Presently Marian threw a shawl over her head and they both climbed the hill back of the house. The wind was still blowing fiercely. Sherm saw them on the ridge and followed to see what was tempting them to a stroll on such a night.

"What's up?"

Marian answered. "Why, Jane thinks all this yellow haze comes from a prairie fire. We've been trying to see if we could see any trace of it.

It seems to me I do smell smoke--there's a kind of pungent tang to the air, too." Marian sniffed uneasily.

"Like burning gra.s.s or leaves?"

Marian's face paled. "Sherm, that's exactly what it is! What can we do?

And the menfolks all away except Jim Bart, and he's gone to Benton's on an errand. He'll be back in a few minutes though."

"Don't worry, Marian," said Jane, "if it's a prairie fire it's miles and miles off. It must be on the other side of Little John. It can never cross the creek--besides, the wind is blowing the wrong way for it to sweep down on us."

"That's so--but the wind might change any minute, and in a gale like this I'm not so sure it might not jump Little John. I do wish Frank had finished that back-firing."

"I suppose it wouldn't be possible to do it until the wind lulls, but Mrs. Morton, I'll sit up and watch to-night--at least until the wind goes down. It often falls about midnight," said Sherm, looking troubled.

"It looks to me as if we were in for a three-days' blow," Marian replied despondently. "But I'd be much obliged if you would, Sherm, I don't quite like to ask Jim Bart to, for he's had such a hard day. Do you think you can keep awake? And, Chicken Little, don't let on to Mother--we mustn't worry her."

"Sherm," said Jane, after they went into the house, "I'm going to stay up, too; I'll slip down again after Mother goes to bed. It's a lot easier for two people to keep awake than one."

"No, Chicken Little, I don't believe you'd better. Your mother wouldn't like it. And we'd be dead sure to laugh or talk loud enough for her to hear us. I hope the wind will go down early. If it doesn't and I find I can't stay awake, I'll call you and let you watch while I doze on the couch here."

Jane stayed up as late as her mother would let her, and Sherm made the excuse of having special studying to do, to sit up later. After Mrs.

Morton had retired he made frequent excursions to the hill top. A lurid glare lit up the horizon to the northwest. He could still catch the tang of smoke and whiffs of burning gra.s.s, but these were not so pungent as earlier in the evening. The fire seemed farther away. By eleven, the glare was decidedly fainter and the wind had subsided noticeably. At twelve, he concluded it was safe to go to bed.

Chicken Little waking about two, stole down stairs and finding everything dark, made the rounds of the windows, but the distant fire showed only a faint glow in the night.

When they arose the next morning there was no trace of the fire to be seen. Sherm hailed some men pa.s.sing, for news. They reported that it had swept the north side of Elm Creek and said it had burned up a lot of hay. There was a rumor that two of the upland farmers had lost everything they had and that a man and team had been caught in it. But they hadn't been able to get any details.

"Though it wouldn't be surprising," one of the strangers added, "that fire was traveling faster than any horse could run."

Chicken Little had come out and was standing beside Sherm. Her eyes grew big. "Do they really think somebody got burned?"

One of the men nudged the man who had spoken.