“There you are,” Nathan shouted, when Susan had begged them to desist because of the dust they were raising. “We’ll set you folks a sproutin’ if heat an’ moisture’s got anything t’ do with it,” he continued.
He pulled some grain sacks out of the empty wheat bin and advised Luther to wrap them around himself. “I’m some wet, myself,” he announced, “but I’ve got warm ragin’ round here like a gopher. Now tell us how you folks come t’ get here in all this storm. What’d you do with th’ horses?”
All this had been shouted at the top of his voice, for the wind rattled and tore at the old building with the noise of a cannonade, as if determined to wreck even this shelter. It was not possible to see one’s hand in the darkness, for when the door had been pulled shut after the young couple, the last ray of light was shut out. Besides, night had fallen now, and the darkness outside was no less dense.
Luther told in as few words as possible of the catastrophe which had befallen them on the road.
“Why, Susan,” Nathan exclaimed, “th’ same twister struck them as struck us! Now don’t that beat you? Funny th’ stables didn’t go, too. That’s th’ way with them things—they go along an’ mow a patch a rod ’r two wide as clean as a whistle, an’ not touch a thing ten feet away. Lord man!” he cried, turning toward Luther in the dark with a reminiscent giggle, “you should ’a’ seen us. Sue saw th’ storm a-comin’, an’ she run out t’ git th’ chickens in, an’ nothin’ ’d do ’er when she see th’ way them clouds was a actin’ but I must come in, too. We didn’t even milk! I never see anything come on like it; we didn’t hardly have time t’ git th’ winders shut till we could hear it roarin’! Lord, you should ’a’ heard it come! All at onct it got dark, an’ th’ house begun t’ rock; an’ then it slid along on th’ ground, an’ then it lifted clear up at th’ northeast corner, an’ we slid down in a heap on th’ other side along o’ th’ cupboards an’ th’ kitchen table an’ crocks we’d set out for th’ milk we didn’t get into ’em, an’ then th’ house lit over on th’ other corner an’ went t’ pieces like a dry-goods box. That kitchen table was th’ savin’ of us! I don’t know how it got over us, but there it was with th’ safe an’ water-bench a holdin’ th’ timbers off’n us.” Nathan wound up his story in a lowered tone, and there was silence for a moment as each went over his personal experience in thought.
“Gittin’ warm there, Elizabeth?” he asked after a time.
“A little,” the girl answered, still shivering, but with less audible chattering of her teeth.
“You’ll be all right in half an hour,” Nathan said with a relieved sigh. “I think we’ll put a little more of these oats over you for good luck,” he added.
They heaped the warm grain thick about her, and then, because it was hard to converse with the noise of the roaring wind outside, gave up the effort. The old granary had a good roof and did not leak; they grew less frightened, and Elizabeth grew warm in Aunt Susan’s arms and slept at last. The rest lay long, listening to the angry blast, counting up their losses and planning to reconstruct so as to fit the new circumstances. For Luther another horse would be needed, while Nathan would have to build a house and furnish it anew.
After the wind subsided the two men discussed in low tones the best way of beginning on the morrow, and it was finally decided that Luther should go out and appeal to the neighbours to gather together and assist in sorting and saving such things as were worth it, and construct out of the broken timbers a habitation which would shelter them till a better could be erected. Fortunately, Luther had used none of the lumber of his last load, and but little of the one he had bought before.