The Way of the Wind | Page 5

all his labor in her behalf
could salve that wound.
As he knelt before the blazing twigs, apparently doing their best to aid
him in his effort to cheer her, something of this feeling penetrated to his
inner consciousness.
Nevertheless, he piled on twig after twig until the refreshing flames
brilliantly illumined the dugout.
From dirt floor to dirt roof they filled it with light.
The poor little twigs, eagerly flashing into flame to help him!
Better far if, wet and soggy, they had burned dimly or not at all; for
their blaze only served to exhibit every deficiency Seth should have
endeavored to hide. The thatch of the roof, the sod, the carpetless floor,
the lack of furniture, the plain wooden bedstead in the corner with its
mattress of straw, the crazy window fashioned by his own rude
carpentry, the shapeless door which was like a slap in the face with its
raw and unpainted color of new wood.
After the first wild glance about her, Celia buried her face in her hands,
resolutely shutting out the view for fear of bursting into uncontrollable
tears.
Seth, seeing this, rose from his knees slowly, lamely, as if suddenly
very tired, and went about his preparations for their evening meal.

Men with less courage than it required to perform this simple duty have
stood up to be shot at.
Knowing full well that with each act of humble servitude he sank lower
and lower in the estimation of the one living creature in whose
estimation he wished to stand high, he once more knelt on the hearth,
placed potatoes in the ashes, raked a little pile of coals together and set
the coffee pot on them.
He drew the small deal table out and put upon it two cups and saucers,
plates and forks for two. There was but one knife. That was for Celia. A
pocket knife was to serve for himself.
It had been his pleasure throughout his lonely days of waiting to picture
this first meal which Celia and he should eat together.
Never once had he dreamed that the realization could come so near
breaking a strong man's heart,--that things seemingly of small import
could stab with a thrust so knife-like.
He felt the color leave his cheek at the thought that he had failed to
provide a cloth for the table, not even a napkin. He fumbled at his
bandana, then hopelessly replaced it in his pocket. He grew cold at the
realization that every luxury to which she had been accustomed, almost
every necessity, was absent from that plain board.
He had counted on her love to overlook much.
It had overlooked nothing.
When all was in readiness he drew up a chair and begged her to be
seated.
He took the opposite chair and the meal proceeded in silence, broken
only by the wail of the wind and the crackle of the little dry twigs that
burned on the hearth.
"I am afraid of it," sighed Celia.

"Of what, sweet?" he asked, and she answered:
"I am afraid of the wind."
"There is nothing to be afraid of," he explained quickly. "It is only the
ordinary wind of the prairies. It ain't a cyclone. Cyclones nevah come
this way, neah to the forks of two rivers wheah we ah," and waxing
eloquent on this, his hobby, he began telling her of the great and
beautiful and prosperous city which was sometime to be built on this
spot; perhaps the very dugout in which they sat would form its center.
He talked enthusiastically of the tall steepled temples that would be
erected, of the schools and colleges, of the gay people beautifully
dressed who would drive about in their carriages under the shade of tall
trees that would line the avenues, of the smiling men and women and
children whose home the Magic City would be, and how he was
confident they would build it here because, in the land of terrible winds,
when people commenced to erect their metropolis, they must put it
where no deadly breath of cyclone or tornado could tear at it or
overturn it.
With that he went on to describe the destructive power of the cyclones,
telling how one in a neighboring country had licked up a stream that
lay in its course, showering the water and mud down fifty miles away.
"But no cyclone will ever come here," he added and explained why.
Because it was the place of the forks of two rivers, the Big Arkansas
and the Little Arkansas. A cyclone will go out of its way, he told her,
rather than tackle the forks of two rivers. The Indians knew that. They
had pitched their tents here before they had been driven into the
Territory and that