CHAPTER ONE
Bill Munson, our foreman, had brought some letters with him when he returned from doing some errands in town. Half an hour later when I walked into our parlor, Ma was sitting at her writing desk with a letter in front of her, and she was crying. Wondering who had died, I rushed across the room and knelt beside her. Putting my arms around her, I tried to ease her grief.
She smiled through her tears and handed me the letter. Quickly I read, looking for bad news and checking the signature. The letter was from Grandma and Grandpa Delaney in Kentucky telling us that they were coming to visit us. Ma had been crying because she was happy.
I threw the letter into the air, jumped up and let out a whoop, then squeezed Ma until she could barely breathe. Then I picked up the scattered pages, and we began to calculate. The letter was three weeks old. Allowing for breakdowns and weather problems, Ma figured they should arrive in about four days.
I knew I couldn't stand the wait. I looked at Ma, who was still crying, and wondered if I'd ever understand women.
We hadn't seen my grandparents in over four years. Ma was very close to them, and I knew she was as excited as I was at the news of their coming. We had visited them in Kentucky when I was eight, and Grandpa had made that visit one I'd never forget. We had spent hours together hunting, fishing and watching forest creatures that almost never seemed to be afraid of us.
Pa had been there with us; how I wished he could be with us again. Three years had passed, but I still clearly remembered the fire that had destroyed our general store and killed Pa. My heart ached sometimes, especially at night when I awoke from a dream that Pa was still alive and we were together again.
I didn't cry easily, but I always cried after one of those dreams.
I was now fourteen years old. During the two years Ma and I had been in Texas, I had learned to ride and track like an Indian, defend myself with my fists and feet, handle a gun or a knife as well as some men and survive in some of the toughest parts of Texas. I was Miss Ross's best student in reading and writing, and only one or two of my friends could beat me in spelling or ciphering.
Now I know that all my talk about being able to ride and track and fight and shoot probably sounds like nothing but wind passing through leaky organ bellows, but it's the truth. I'm not bragging either. I give most of the credit to those who taught me those things and to the Lord who let me learn them so easily. Why, even the booklearning part came easy to me. Esther Travis, who was in school with me and a really good friend--for a girl--said it wasn't fair for a person to pick up so much so fast with so little effort. It wasn't that I didn't have to try; I just didn't have to try very hard to get most things.
Chad, our top hand, had been teaching me to shoot and fight. Although I'd grown four inches and gained fifteen pounds while Chad was training and working with me, he could outfight, out-shoot, outride and outwork me before breakfast and not even break out in a sweat.