A Campfire Girl's First Council Fire Part 1

A Campfire Girl's First Council Fire.

by Jane L. Stewart.

CHAPTER I

THE ESCAPE

"Now then, you, Bessie, quit your loafin' and get them dishes washed!

An' then you can go out and chop me some wood for the kitchen fire!"

The voice was that of a slatternly woman of middle age, thin and complaining. She had come suddenly into the kitchen of the Hoover farmhouse and surprised Bessie King as the girl sat resting for a moment and reading.

Bessie jumped up alertly at the sound of the voice she knew so well, and started nervously toward the sink.

"Yes, ma'am," she said. "I was awful tired--an' I wanted to rest for a few minutes."

"Tired!" scolded the woman. "Land knows _you_ ain't got nothin' to carry on so about! Ain't you got a good home? Don't we board you and give you a good bed to sleep in? Didn't Paw Hoover give you a nickel for yourself only last week?"

"Yes--an' you took it away from me soon's you found it out," Bessie flashed back. There were tears in her eyes, but she went at her dishes, and Mrs. Hoover, after a minute in which she glared at Bessie, turned and left the kitchen, muttering something about ingrat.i.tude as she went.

As she worked, Bessie wondered why it was that she must always do the work about the house when other girls were at school or free to play.

But it had been that way for a long time, and she could think of no way of escaping to happier conditions. Mrs. Hoover was no relation to her at all. Bessie had a father and mother, but they had left her with Mrs.

Hoover a long time before, and she could scarcely remember them, but she heard about them, her father especially, whenever she did something that Mrs. Hoover didn't like.

"Take after your paw--that's what you do, good-for-nothin' little hussy!" the farmer's wife would say. "Leavin' you here on our hands when he went away--an' promisin' to send board money for you. Did, too, for 'bout a year--an' since then never a cent! I've a mind to send you to the county farm, that I have!"

"Now, maw," Paw Hoover, a kindly, toil-hardened farmer, would say when he happened to overhear one of these outbursts, "Bessie's a good girl, an' I reckon she earns her keep, don't she, helpin' you like, round the place?"

"Earn her keep?" Mrs. Hoover would shrill. "She's so lazy she'd never do anythin' at all if I didn't stand over her. All she's good fer is to eat an' sleep--an' to hide off som'ere's so's she can read them trashy books when she ought to be reddin' up or doin' her ch.o.r.es!"

And Paw Hoover would sigh and retire, beaten in the argument. He knew his wife too well to argue with her. But he liked Bessie, and he did his best to comfort her when he had the chance, and thought there was no danger of starting a dispute with his wife.

Bessie finished her dishes, and then she went out obediently to the wood pile, and set to work to chop kindling. She had been up since daylight--and the sun rose early on those summer mornings. Every bone and muscle in her tired little body ached, but she knew well that Mrs.

Hoover had been listening to the work of was.h.i.+ng the dishes, and she dared not rest lest her taskmistress descend upon her again when the noise ceased.

Mrs. Hoover came out after she had been chopping wood for a few minutes and eyed her crossly.

"'Pears to me like you're mighty slow," she said, complainingly. "When you get that done there's b.u.t.ter to be made. So don't be all day about it."

But the wood was hard, and though Bessie worked diligently enough, her progress was slow. She was still at it when Mrs. Hoover, dressed in her black silk dress and with her best bonnet on her head, appeared again.

"I'm goin' to drive into town," she said. "An' if that b.u.t.ter ain't done when I get back, I'll--"

She didn't finish her threat in words, but Bessie had plenty of memories of former punishments. She made no answer, and Mrs. Hoover, still scowling, finally went off.

As if that had been a signal, another girl appeared suddenly from the back of the woodshed. She was as dark as Bessie was fair, a mischievous, black-eyed girl, who danced like a sprite as she approached Bessie. Her brown legs were bare, her dress was even more worn and far dingier than Bessie's, which was clean and neat. She was smiling as Bessie saw her.

"Oh, Zara, aren't you afraid to come here?" said Bessie, alarmed, although Zara was her best and almost her only friend. "You know what she said she'd do if she ever caught you around here again?"

"Yes, I know," said Zara, seating herself on a stump and swinging her legs to and fro, after she had kissed Bessie, still laughing. "I'm not afraid of her, though, Bessie. She'd never catch me--she can't run fast enough! And if she ever touched me--"

The smile vanished suddenly from Zara's olive skinned face. Her eyes gleamed.

"She'd better look out for herself!" she said. "She wouldn't do it again!"

"Oh, Zara, it's wrong to talk that way," said Bessie. "She's been good to me. She's looked after me all this time--and when I was sick she was ever so nice to me--"

"Pooh!" said Zara. "Oh, I know I'm not good and sweet like you, Bessie!

The teacher says that's why the nice girls won't play with me. But it isn't. I know--and it's the same way with you. If we had lots of money and pretty clothes and things like the rest of them, they wouldn't care.

Look at you! You're nicer than any of them, but they don't have any more to do with you than with me. It's because we're poor."

"I don't believe it's that, Zara. They know that I haven't got time to play with them, and that I can't ask them here, or go to their houses if they ask me. Some time--"

"You're too good, Bessie. You never get angry at all. You act as if you ought to be grateful to Maw Hoover for looking after you. Don't she make you work like a hired girl, and pay you nothin' for it? You work all the time--she'd have to pay a hired girl good wages for what you do, and treat her decently, beside. You're so nice that everyone picks on you, just 'cause they know they can do it and you won't hit back."

Glad of a chance to rest a little, Bessie had stopped her work to talk to Zara, and neither of the two girls heard a stealthy rustling among the leaves back of the woodshed, nor saw a grinning face that appeared around the corner. The first warning that they had that they were not alone came when a long arm reached out suddenly and a skinny, powerful hand grasped Zara's arm and dragged her from her perch.

"Caught ye this time, ain't I?" said the owner of the hand and arm, appearing from around the corner of the shed. "My, but Maw'll pickle yer when she gits hold of yer!"

"Jake Hoover!" exclaimed Bessie, indignantly. "You big sneak, you! Let her go this instant! Aren't you ashamed of yourself, hurtin' her like that?"

Zara, caught off her guard, had soon collected herself, and begun to struggle in his grasp like the wild thing she was. But Jake Hoover only laughed, leering at the two girls. He was a tall, lanky, overgrown boy of seventeen, and he was enjoying himself thoroughly. He seemed to have inherited all his mother's meanness of disposition and readiness to find fault and to take delight in the unhappiness of others. Now, as Zara struggled, he twisted her wrist to make her stop, and only laughed at her cries of pain.

"Let her go! She isn't hurting you!" begged Bessie. "Please, Jake, if you do, I'll help you do your ch.o.r.es to-night--I will, indeed!"

"You'll have to do 'em anyhow," said Jake, still holding poor Zara.

"I've got a dreadful headache. I'm too sick to do any work to-night."

He made a face that he thought was comical. Zara, realizing that she was helpless against his greater strength, had stopped struggling, and he turned on her suddenly with a vicious glare.

"I know why you're hangin' 'round here," he said. "They took that worthless critter you call your paw off to jail jest now--and you're tryin' to steal chickens till he comes out."

"That ain't true!" she exclaimed. "My father never stole anything.

They're just picking on him because he's a foreigner and can't talk as well as some of them--"

"They've locked him up, anyhow," said Jake. "An' now I'm goin' to lock you up, too, an' keep you here till maw comes home--right here in the woodshed, where you'll be safe!"

And despite her renewed struggling and Bessie's tearful protests, he kept his word, thrusting her into the woodshed and locking the great padlock on the door, while she screamed in futile rage, and kicked wildly at the door.

Then, with a parting sneer for Bessie, he went off, carrying the key with him.

"Listen, Zara," said Bessie, sobbing. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes. I'm all right, Bessie. Don't you cry! He didn't hurt me any."

"I'll try and get a key so I can let you out before she comes home. If she finds you in there, she'll give you a beating, just like she said.

I've got to go churn some milk into b.u.t.ter now, but I'll be back as soon as ever I can. Don't you worry! I'll get you out of there all right."