It was Phil Wilson.
“Swiftwater has given me a deed to this house and power of attorney over his other matters,” said he. “I shall move my things over here and occupy one of these three rooms.”
I knew better than to make any objection then, but the next day I told Wilson:
“You will have to take your things down town—you cannot stay here.”
“I guess I’ll stay all right, Mrs. Beebe,” said he. “And it will be all winter, too. And, I think it would be better for you, Mrs. Beebe, if you stayed here with me.”
I knew just what that meant. I said:
“Mr. Wilson, I understand you, but you will go and take your things now.”
Wilson left in another minute and I did not see him for two days. On the second afternoon I locked the door with a padlock and went down town to do some shopping for the baby, who I had left with a neighbor. I also wanted to send a fourth letter to Swiftwater, begging him to send me some money to keep me and his baby from starving.
When I got back at dusk that evening, the door to the cabin was broken open, and the chain and padlock lay on the ground shattered into fragments.
I went inside. All my clothes, the baby’s and even the little personal belongings of the child were piled together in a disordered heap in the center room.