Free Dry Divide by Ralph Moody Page A

evenly spread over the land. In some places it was thin, but in others thick and rank. Any reasonable man would have kept his horses at a slow walk, and would have raised or lowered his cutter bar so as to take only the heads and three or four inches of straw, but Hudson set his cutter low enough to catch the shortest heads and left it there, putting a terrific strain on the horses and the worn-out old header. Half a dozen times the conveyor belt broke from being overloaded, and each time it took Hudson nearly half an hour to repair it.
    The breakdowns were lifesavers for the horses and me, for they gave me time to square my stack into shape, but they were rough on Edgar and Everett. They were the only ones Hudson dared vent his anger on, and from clear across the field I could hear him yelling and swearing at them. I have an idea they had promised each other to finish out the day in spite of anything, but if so Everett broke his promise. At about eleven o’clock, he blew sky high, jumped off the barge with his pitchfork held in both hands, and for a second or two I thought he was going to rush Hudson with it, but he stopped just beyond reach of the whip, shouting that they’d quit and demanded their wages right then. Hudson roared back that they hadn’t earned the grub they’d eaten, then whipped up his horses and drove on.
    The boys followed the header for a few yards, shouting that they’d have their attorney take care of Hudson, then they gave up and limped toward the house. Just before we knocked off for noon I saw them hobbling toward the main road, carrying their suitcases and looking as dejected as any pair of boys I’d ever seen. Their leaving was more or less a relief to the rest of us. As far as Gus and Lars were concerned, they’d only been in the way, and as soon as they were gone Hudson cooled down a little, probably convinced that Gus and Lars would go right on doing double work, and that he’d saved himself fourteen dollars a day. Then too, as the horses began to tire he couldn’t keep them at so fast a pace, so the header gave less trouble.
    By noon the temperature was above 110°, I was sweating so much that the wheat beards stuck to my back and belly like a swarm of stinging mosquitoes, and the blisters on both hands had broken. Each time Doc came in with a load he scolded at me for going at my job too hard, and told me the easier ways to do it, but I couldn’t pick up the knack well enough to find a minute’s rest without letting my stack get out of shape. Then too, I’d run out of breakfast long before Hudson shouted, “Grub!” from the far end of the field.
    I rode in from the stack with Judy and Gus, and when we reached the corral Hudson was nowhere in sight. He’d left the header in the middle of the yard, and Paco was unhooking the trace chains. Doc and Bill were unhitching their own teams, and Jaikus was pitching a little dab of wheat into the corral from one of the barges. Judy would have gone right to work at unhitching her team, but I told her to run along, and Gus did the unhitching while I helped Paco with the header teams. All the horses were dripping with sweat, so we didn’t dare let them have much water, but gave each one a dozen swallows or so before putting them into the corral to make out a meal on that dry, bearded wheat straw. When we stripped off their bridles no one would have guessed they were the same broncos we’d harnessed that morning. They were so worked-down and starved that all the fight had gone out of them.
    The children were playing near the windmill when we left the corral to wash up for dinner. They stood watching us until we were halfway to them—half curious, half frightened, like four little antelopes—then ran away behind the house. We’d washed and were just starting for the kitchen when Hudson came out. He avoided looking our way, and hurried off toward the header.
    Dinner was on the