CAN West 04 - When Hope Springs New Read Online Free PDF

skirt, reaching around the door to toss it back out onto the path. After that I removed the rest of my clothes and scrubbed with soap and water until I had my skin red and chafed. Still I smelled like a skunk!
    I was forced to put clean garments on a still odorous body; then with a tub of hot sudsy water I attacked my clothes. I washed them as best as I could and hung them on my outside line. I could still smell them. I next took Kip and scrubbed him in the water. His wet fur seemed to smell worse, not better.
    I saw many curious looks directed my way. Little clusters of Indian children stared without reservation, and the women gathered in whispery little groups, trying not to be as obvious as the children, but not succeeding very well.
    I clamped my jaw and scrubbed harder on Kip. He whined and tried to pull away from me, but I scolded him mildly and scrubbed on. After all, he was the one who had gotten us into the mess!
    In spite of all my efforts, when Wynn returned that night he was greeted by the strong smell of skunk.
    “What do I do about it?” I moaned.
    “Not much that you can do,” Wynn answered.
    “You mean nothing will help it?”
    “Only time, as far as I know,” responded Wynn.
    I moaned again. “Time” always seemed so slow when you needed it to pass quickly.
    “You could try filling the pot with dirt and burying your clothes,” Wynn said. “Some seem to think that the earth takes some of the odor away.”
    “Kip is the worst,” I insisted.
    “Bury him, too, if you like,” said Wynn, but he smiled to let me know he was teasing.
    I did bury my clothes. I also buried the pot. The Indians watched me, hiding their eyes and their comments behind work-stained hands.
    I did not leave my clothes buried for long. I could not take the chance of the moist ground causing rot. The clothing I had was scarce enough at best and to lose an outfit simply would not do, even if I did reek each time I wore it. I dug it up carefully and washed it with soap and water again and hung it on the line.
    The soil did seem to help my cooking pot. I scoured it thoroughly again and set it out in the sun.
    Kip didn’t seemed to mind being left outside—except at night. Then he would whine to come in. His whining wasn’t as objectionable as his barking. He seemed to bark at every night sound. Wynn and I had supposed that we were used to the sound of barking dogs, but we found that Kip kept awakening us night after night with his fussing.
    Undaunted, I was still determined to have a blueberry pie, so the next week I took Kip and again headed for the west and some berry patches. This time I did not remove Kip’s leash when we got to the patch. Instead, I tied him to a small sapling and went about picking the berries to fill my pot.
    Kip fussed and whined the whole time. To make it up to him, when I had picked my container full, I took him to the stream and let him loose so he could play in the water. We had a lively game of chase-the-stick. When I felt that he had had enough exercise, I slipped on his leash again, picked up my full pot of berries and headed for home.
    The Indian people watched me enter the village again. I smiled and spoke to those who were near the path, but they turned their backs and pretended not to notice me. I tried not to let it bother me, but it did.
    “Well, anyway,” I said to Kip, who seemed to be the only one willing to listen to me, “I have my berries for pie.”
    When Wynn arrived home that night he was welcomed by a new aroma. The smell was nearly gone from Kip, my garments, and the cooking pot. Instead, the wonderful smell of fresh blueberry pie wafted throughout the cabin. I was pleased with myself. I had found the patch, I had persevered, I had baked my pie.
    “Great!” said Wynn with an appreciative pat on my arm as he pushed back from the table after a second helping. His short, emphatic comment was enough to make it all worthwhile.

SEVEN

    Winter

    More determined than even my