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TooSoonaWomanDorothyM.JohnsonWeleftthehomeplacebehind,milebyslowmile,headingforthemountains,acrosstheprairiewherethewindblewforever.Atfirsttherewerefourofuswiththeone-horsewagonanditsskimpyload.PaandIwalked,becauseIwasabigboyofeleven.Mytwolittlesistersrompedandtrotteduntiltheygottiredandhadtobeboostedupintothewagonbed.ThatwasnocoveredConestoga,likePa’sfolkscameWestin,butjustanoldfarmwagon,drawnbyonewearyhorse,creakingandrumblingwestwardtothemountains,towardthelittlewoodstownwherePathoughthehadanoldunclewhoownedalittletwo-bitsawmill.TwoweekswehadbeenmovingwhenwepickedupMary,whohadrunawayfromsomewherethatshewouldn’ttell.Padidn’twantheralong,butshestooduptohimwithnofearinhervoice.“I’drathergowithafamilyandlookafterkids,”shesaid,“butIain’tgoingback.Ifyouwon’ttakeme,I’lltravelwithanywagonthatwill.”Pascowledather,andherwideblueeyesstaredback.“Howoldareyou?”hedemanded.“Eighteen,”shesaid.“There’steamsterscomethiswaysometimes.I’drathergowithyoufolks.ButIwon’tgoback.”“We’reprid’nearoutofgrub,”myfathertoldher.“We’recleanoutofmoney.IgotallIcanhandlewithouttakinganybodyelse.”Heturnedawayasifhehatedthesightofher.“You’llhavetowalk,”hesaid.Soshewentalongwithusandlookedafterthelittlegirls,butPawouldn’ttalktoher.Ontheprairie,thewindblew.Butinthemountains,therewasrain.Whenwestoppedatlittletimberclaimsalongtheway,thehomesteaderssaidithadrainedallsummer.Cropsamongtheblackenedstumpswererottedandspoiled.Therewasnocheeranywhere,andlittlehospitality.Thepeoplewetalkedtowerepastworrying.Theywerescaredanddesperate.SowasPa.Hetraveledtwiceasfareachdayasthewagon,rangingthroughthewoodswithhisrifle,butheneversawgame.Hehadbeendependingonvenison,butwenevergotanyexceptasagrudginggiftfromthehomesteaders.Hebroughtinaporcupineonce,andthatwasfatmeatandgood.Maryroasteditinchunksoverthefire,halfcryingwiththesmoke.PaandIriggedupthetarpsheetforsheltertokeeptherainfromputtingthefirecleanout.Theporcupinewaslonggone,exceptforsomeofthetried-outfatthatMaryhadsaved,whenwecametoanold,emptycabin.Pasaidwe’dhavetostop.Thehorsewasworeout,couldn’tpullanymoreupthosegradesonthedeep-ruttedroadsinthemountains.Atthecabin,atleasttherewasshelter.Wehadafewpotatoesleftandsomecornmeal.Therewasacreekthatprobablyhadfishinit,ifapersoncouldcatchthem.Patrieditforhalfadaybeforehegaveup.TothisdayIdon’tcareforfishing.Iremembermyfather’ssunkeneyesinhisgaunt,grimface.HetookMaryandmeoutsidethecabintotalk.Raindrippedonusfrombranchesoverhead.“IthinkIknowwhereweare,”hesaid.“IcalculatetogettooldJohn’sandbackinaboutfourdays.There’llbegrubinthetown,andthey’llletmehavesomewhetheroldJohn’sstillthereornot.”Helookedatme.“Youdolikeshetellsyou,”hewarned.ItwasthefirsttimehehadadmittedMarywasonearthsincewepickedheruptwoweeksbefore.“You’remypardner,”hesaidtome,“butitmightbeshe’sgotmorebrains.Youmindwhatshesays.”Heburstoutwithbitterness,“Thereain’tanythinggoodleftintheworld,orpeopletocareifyouliveordie.ButI’llgetgrubinthetownandcomebackwithit.”Hetookadeepbreathandadded,“Ifyougettooall-firedhungry,butcherthehorse.It’llbebetterthanstarvin’.”Hekissedthelittlegirlsgoodbyeandploddedoffthroughthewoodswithoneblanketandtherifle.Thecabinwasmoldyandhadnofloor.Wekeptafiregoingunderaholeintheroof,soitwasfullofblindingsmoke,butwehadtokeepthefiresoastodryoutthewood.Thethirdnightwelostthehorse.Abearscaredhim.Weheardtheracket,andMaryandIranout,butwecouldn’tseeanythinginthepitchdark.IngraydaylightIwentlookingforhim,andImusthavewalkedfifteenmiles.ItseemedlikeIhadtohavethathorseatthecabinwhenPacameorhe’dwhipme.IgotplumblosttwoorthreetimesandthoughtmaybeIwasgoingtodietherealoneandnobodywouldeverknowit,butIfoundthewaybacktotheclearing.Thatwasthefourthday,andPadidn’tcome.Thatwasthedayweateupthelastofthegrub.Thefifthday,Marywentlookingforthehorse.Mysisterswhimpered,huddledinaquiltbythefire,becausetheywerescaredandhungry.Ineverdidgetdriedout,alwayshavingtobringinmoredampwoodandgoingouttoyelltoseeifMarywouldhearmeandnotgetlost.ButIcouldn’tcrylikethelittlegirlsdid,becauseIwasabigboy,elevenyearsold.Itwasneardarkwhentherewasananswertomyyelling,andMarycameintotheclearing.Marydidn’thavethehorse—weneversawhidenorhairofthatoldhorseagain—butshewascarryingsomethingbigandwhitethatlookedlikeapumpkinwithnocolortoit.Shedidn’tsayanything,justlookedaroundandsawPawasn’tthereyet,attheendofthefifthday.“What’sthatthing?”mysisterElizabethdemanded.“Mushroom,”Maryanswered.“Ibetitheftstenpounds.”“Whatareyougoingtodowithitnow?”Isneered.“Playfootballhere?”“Eatit—maybe,”shesaid,puttingitinacorner.Herwethairhungoverhershoulders.Shehuddledbythefire.MysisterSarahbegantowhimperagain.“I’mhungry!”shekeptsaying.“Mushroomsain’tgoodeating,”Isaid.“Theycankillyou.”“Maybe,”Maryanswered.“Maybetheycan.Idon’tsetuptoknowallabouteverything,likesomepeople.”“What’sthatmarkonyourshoulder?”Iaskedher.“Youtoreyourdressonthebrush.”“Whatdoyouthinkitis?”shesaid,herheadbowedinthesmoke.“Lookslikescars,”Iguessed.“’Tisscars.Theywhippedme.Nowmindyourownbusiness.Iwanttothink.”Elizabethwhimpered,“Whydon’tPacomeback?”“He’scoming,”Marypromised.“Can’tcomeinthedark.Yourpa’lltakecareof