He did mean it—he did! He did not mean to cut that wheat. She watched him as he ate, and that fine-spun desperation that comes when courage alone is not enough, that purpose that does the impossible, took hold of her.
When he had finished his silent meal he went leisurely out to the little front porch and sat down. She followed him. "Wes Dean, you going to cut that wheat?" she demanded; and she did not know the sound of her own voice, so high and shrill it was.
The vein in his forehead leered at her. What was she to pit her strength against a mood like this? He did not answer, did not even look at her.
"Do you mean to say you'd be so wicked—such a fool?" she went on.
Now he looked up at her with furious, threatening eyes.
"Shut your mouth and go in!" he said.
She did not move. "If you ain't going to cut it—then I am!"
She turned and started through the house, and he leaped up and followed her. In the kitchen he overtook her.
"You stay where you are! You don't go out of this house this day!" He laid a rough, restraining hand on her shoulder.
At that touch—the first harshness she had ever felt from him—something hot and flaming leaped through her. She whirled away from him and caught up Aunt Dolcey's big sharp butcher knife lying on the table; lifted it.