“I wonder where the herd is,” Ma worried.
At last they could see a flickering brightness under the cloud.
“If the cows are safe a
cross the creek we needn’t worry,” said Ma. “Fire can’t cross that fire-break. Better come in the house, girls, and eat your dinner.”
She took Carrie into the house, but Laura and Mary looked just once more at the smoke rolling nearer. Then Mary pointed and opened her mouth but could not speak. Laura screamed, “Ma! Ma! A wheel of fire!”
In front of the red-flickering smoke a wheel of fire came rolling swiftly, setting fire to the grass as it came. Another and another, another, came rolling fast before the wind. The first one was whirling across the fire-break.
With water-pail and mop Ma ran to meet it. She struck it with the wet mop and beat it out black on the ground. She ran to meet the next one, but more and more were coming.
“Stay back, Laura!” she said.
Laura stayed backed flat against the house, holding Mary’s hand tight, and watching. In the house Carrie was crying because Ma had shut her in.
The wheels of fire came on, faster and faster. They were the big tumbleweeds, that had ripened round and dry and pulled up their small roots so that the wind would blow them far and scatter their seeds. Now they were burning, but still they rolled before the roaring wind and the roaring big fire that followed them.
Smoke swirled now around Ma where she ran, beating with her mop at those fiery swift wheels. Jack shivered against Laura’s legs and tears ran out of her smarting eyes.
Mr. Nelson’s gray colt came galloping and Mr. Nelson jumped off it at the stable. He grabbed a pitchfork and shouted: “Run quick! Bring wet rags!” He went running to help Ma.
Laura and Mary ran to the creek with gunny sacks. They ran back with them sopping wet and Mr. Nelson put one on the pitchfork tines. Ma’s pail was empty; they ran and filled it.
The wheels of fire were running up the knoll. Streaks of fire followed through the dry grass. Ma and Mr. Nelson fought them with the mop and the wet sacks.
“The hay-stacks! The hay-stacks!” Laura screamed. One wheel of fire had got to the hay-stacks. Mr. Nelson and Ma went running through the smoke. Another wheel came rolling over the black-burned ground to the house. Laura was so frightened that she did not know what she was doing. Carrie was in the house. Laura beat that burning wheel to death with a wet gunny sack.
Then there were no more wheels. Ma and Mr. Nelson had stopped the fire at the haystack. Bits of sooty hay and grass swirled in the air, while the big fire rushed to the firebreak.
It could not get across. It ran fast to the south, to the creek. It ran north and came to the creek there. It could not go any farther, so it dwindled down and died where it was.
The clouds of smoke were blowing away and the prairie fire was over. Mr. Nelson said he had gone on his gray colt after the cattle; they were safe on the other side of the creek.
“We are grateful to you, Mr. Nelson,” said Ma. “You saved our place. The girls and I could never have done it alone.”
When he had gone away she said, “There is nothing in the world so good as good neighbors. Come now, girls, and wash, and eat your dinner.”
Chapter 34
Marks on the Slate
After the prairie fire the weather was so cold that Ma said they must hurry to dig the potatoes and pull the turnips before they froze.
She dug the potatoes while Mary and Laura picked them up and carried them down cellar in pails. The wind blew hard and sharp. They wore their shawls, but of course not their mittens. Mary’s nose was red and Laura’s was icy cold, and their hands were stiff and their feet were numb. But they were glad they had so many potatoes.
It was good to thaw by the stove when the chores were done, and to smell the warm smells of potatoes boiling and fish frying. It was good to eat and to go to bed.
Then in dark, gloomy weather they pulled the turnips. That was harder than picking up potatoes. The turnips were big and stubborn, and often Laura pulled till she sat down hard when the turnip came up.
All the juicy green tops must be cut off with the butcher knife. The juice wet their hands and the wind chapped them till they cracked and bled, and Ma made a salve of lard and bees-wax melted together, to rub on their hands at night.
But Spot and her calf ate the juicy turnip tops and loved them. And it was good to know that there were turnips enough in the cellar to last all winter long. There would be boiled turnips, and mashed turnips and creamed turnips. And in the winter evenings a plate of raw turnips would be on the table by the lamp; they would peel off the thick rinds and eat the raw turnips in crisp, juicy slices.
One day they put the last turnip in the cellar, and Ma said, “Well, it can freeze now.”
Sure enough, that night the ground froze, and in the morning snow was falling thick outside the windows.