On Sabbath afternoons they explored the sand dunes and grassy levels up and down the river. Sometimes they rode northward to the main trail in hope of sighting some prairie schooner coming hitherward, but not once that season did the trail hold a human being for them.
October slipped into November with a gradual sharpening of the frosty air. Everything had been made as snug as possible for the winter. The corrals were enlarged for the stock. The houses and stables were thatched against the cold and storms; and fuel and food were carefully stored. But November was almost passed before the end of the bright and sometimes even balmy days.
“We must have Jim up to the Sunflower Inn for Thanksgiving dinner. Might as well invite the whole neighborhood,” Asher said one evening, as he helped Virginia with the supper dishes.
“I’m planning a real dinner, too,” his wife declared, “just like old Mammy Diane used to cook. You couldn’t tell it from hers if you’d ever eaten one of her spreads.” 47
“I suppose it will taste about as near like one of Diane’s meals as you will look like the cook that made her meals,” Asher answered.
“Well, I’m getting along that way. Look at my tanned arms now. There’s a regular dead line, a perfect fireguard at the elbow. And my muscles, Mammy Diane would say, ’is jus’ monst’ous.’”
Virginia pushed back her sleeve to show the well-marked line where white above met tan below.
“Jim will think anything is better than eating alone out of his own grub box, and your dinner will be a feast,” Asher said, opening the door to carry out the dish water. “What do you think of this?”
A gust of cold rain swished in as the door fell open.
“Our rain is here, at last. Maybe it will bring snow for Thanksgiving, and we could have a touch of New England here,” Virginia said.