Scarlett Hopper's Arc

Chapter 32 of 33

By second light the barn was quiet. Jars cooled on the shelves. Braids of onion swung from the beams. The widow, Mable, sat at the table drawing a list on a scrap of board. Salt. Wax. Two more crocks. Her own cellar, two ridges east, still held her seed jars, her sourdough starter, her mother's brining stones. If ash winds caught them uncovered, the lot would turn to grit. "Everything I own is still in that house," Mable said. "Bring it before the next storm or don't bother bringing it at all." Scarlett called the house on green. Marcus answered. She told him the fields still needed hands, the fences still gaped, the last crates still waited on the widow's shelves. Everybody stayed. She would go alone. She took a revolver, a canteen, and a mask. Behind the barn Marcus had parked a closed hauler he'd dragged up from the hardware lot, wood panels bound in green iron, doors that latched tight, wheels tall enough to clear the ruts. Sealed. Ash-proof if she moved fast. She hitched it to the mule and cut for the ridge road. She was halfway up the second rise when she heard them. Not barking. Panting. Five shapes came out of the brush low and quick, muscle stacked on muscle, jaws loose. Pit bulls. A gray one led. A brindle, a red, a black-and-white, a fawn behind. Scarlett drew the revolver and thumbed the hammer. The gray one stopped ten feet off and sat. The others fanned and sat too. The gray dog's tail beat the dirt once. Then the red one crept forward on its belly and pushed its head under her free hand. She let the hammer down. She crouched. She ran her palm along the red dog's ribs and felt the notches of an old hunger. The healing wanted to move and she let a little of it go, warm through her fingers into the animal's side. The dog leaned into her until it almost fell over. "All right," she said. "All right." They followed her the last mile with their heads at her hip. At Mable's house she loaded the wagon herself, crocks first, jars packed in straw, the starter jar wrapped in a shirt, the brining stones last against the wheel wells. The dogs watched the road. The gray one growled once at nothing and the others answered. Nothing came. She latched the doors before the wind rose. Ash climbed the ridge behind her as she drove. The wagon held. Nothing inside shifted or spoiled. At the gate John opened for her and stopped with his hand on the latch. Five dogs sat in a line behind the mule, waiting to be told where. "They're staying," Scarlett said. "Put two at the barn. Three at the crops." John nodded slowly. "With what pay?" "Fish," she said. "Same as the crows."