Free Love comes softly by Janette Oke Page A

behind
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    the smoke house. She found that a stone platform had been built into the creek bed where a spring, cold from the rocky hillside, burst forth to join the waters below. A perfectly shaded spot was there to cool crocks of butter and cream in the icy cold water on hot summer days. Clark hadn't told her about this, but then there had been no reason to, it not being needed this time of year. She paused a moment, watching the gurgling water ripple over the polished stones. There was something so fascinating about water. She decided, as she pulled herself away, that this would be a choice place to refresh oneself on a sultry summer day.
    She went on to the corrals, reaching over the fence to give Dan, or was it Charlie, a rub on his strong neck. The cows lay in the shade of the tall poplars, placidly chewing their cuds while their calves of that year grew fat on meadow grass in the adjoining pasture. This was a good farm, Marty decided-- just what Clem and she had dreamed of having. Clem had no need of a farm now, and she, Marty?
    She started for the house, past the henhouse, when she suddenly felt a real hunger for pan-fried chicken. She hadn't realized how long it had been since she had tasted any, and she remembered home and the rich aroma from her ma's kitchen. At that moment she was sure that nothing else would taste so good. Preparing chicken was one thing that she had watched her mother do. It had seemed to hold a fascination for her, and whenever they were to have fried-chicken she would station herself by her ma's kitchen table and observe the whole procedure from start to finish. Her mother had never had to begin with a live bird, though. Marty had never chopped a chicken's head off before, but she was sure that she could manage somehow.
    She walked closer to the coop, eying the chickens as they squawked and scurried away, trying to pick out a likely candidate. She wasn't sure if she should catch the one that she wanted and take it to the axe or if she should go to the woodshed for the axe and bring it to the chicken. She finally decided that she would take the chicken to the axe, realizing that she would need a chopping block as well.
    She entered the coop and picked out her victim, a young
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    cocky rooster that looked like he would make good frying.
    "Come here you, come here," she coaxed him, stretching out her hand, but she soon caught on that a chicken would not respond like a dog. In fact, chickens were completely something else. They flew and squawked and whipped up dirt and chicken droppings like a mad whirlwind whenever you got to within several feet of them. Marty soon decided that if she was to have a chicken for supper, full pursuit was the only way to get one into the pan, so she abandoned herself to an outright chase, grabbing at chicken legs and ending up with a faceful of scattered dirt and dirty feathers. Round and round they went. By now Marty had given up on the cocky young rooster and had decided to settle for anything that she could get her hands on. Finally, after much running and grabbing, that had her dress soiled, her hair flying, and her temper seething, she managed to grasp hold of a pair of legs. He was heavier than she had expected, and it took all of her strength to hold him, for he was determined that he wasn't going to be supper for anyone. Marty held tight, just as determined. She half dragged him from the coop and looked him over. This was big- boy himself, she was sure, the granddaddy of the flock, the ruler of the place. So what, she reasoned. He'd make a great pan full, and maybe he hated the thought of facing another winter anyway.
    Marty was panting with exhaustion as she headed for the woodshed, but felt very pleased with herself that she had accomplished her purpose.
    She stretched out the squawking, flopping rooster across a chopping block and as he quieted, reached for the axe. The flopping resumed and Marty had to drop the axe in order to use both hands on the fowl.