The week flew by unnoticed, pulling Archie into its new, established rhythm. Each morning, at first light, he was already loitering at the fork of the main road, glancing toward the Hart farm. And soon Mary would appear on the road, and they would walk to school together—silent and sleepy at first, then more animated, discussing yesterday's lessons and today's anxieties. The walk home was longer and calmer; they cut across the fields where the yellow cornstalks already stood tall, and their conversations flowed freely, about whatever came up.
At school, everyone had grown accustomed to the pair. No one turned their heads when they entered together anymore. It had become part of the landscape, as natural as the desks by the windows or the sound of chalk on a slate.
Until the incident.
That very morning, as they stepped across the classroom threshold as usual, Larry Botter's gaze fell upon them. That familiar spark ignited in his eyes, the one known to all who'd had the misfortune of becoming the object of his attention. He froze for an instant, like a hunter catching the scent of game, then shot off his seat as if propelled by a spring.
For the next five minutes, he tore through the classroom like a hurricane, bumping desks and confusing the other kids, whispering into one ear, then another, with the air of a herald bearing the world's most important news. The rumor he was sowing was simple, precise, and, like all things brilliant, contained a kernel of truth.
"What, you didn't know?" he hissed, squatting down next to Will Frey. "It's common knowledge! Archie from Fox Creek and Mary from Riverside—they're a couple. A real one. Their fathers settled it last winter. Land to land, farm to farm—it's for the best."
Then he'd race over to the group by the stove, adding details:
"They say they'll be engaged by sixteen. They've got it all sewn up: land, livestock, a future clear as day. Rich to rich—that's the way it works."
Mary, catching the first curious glance aimed her way, instantly flushed so red her cheeks bloomed like scarlet poppies. Without a word, she darted to the safe harbor of the girls' circle by the far wall and with unnatural fervor began discussing the pattern on someone's handkerchief, pretending she hadn't heard a thing.
Archie, upon hearing the first whispers, first turned to stone with indignation. The thought flashed through his mind to find Mr. Burns immediately and put a stop to this vile slander. But as the rumor, picked up by a dozen tongues, began to take on flesh, a strange, embarrassed feeling rose in his soul. There was no offense in it. Rather—an awkward, warm wave, mixed with shame. He remembered one of those evening walks along the river when the silence between him and Mary had been so full and peaceful that the thought had truly crept into his head: What if… someday…
But to have it spoken aloud? To be discussed, giggled over, speculated about? No, he couldn't allow that.
The only one who remained utterly indifferent to the sensation was Tommy Savage. When Larry, breathless, bounded up to him with burning eyes, Tommy, without looking up from his breakfast, only grunted:
"Get lost, Botter. You're talking nonsense."
Later, during morning prayers, when the "old boys"—as Mr. Burns called those who'd outgrown their desks in height but not in mischief—tried to lose themselves behind the backs of the little ones, Larry again took center stage. He wasn't praying; he was instructing his neighbors, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"What, are you kneelin' on both knees?" he asked with contempt, looking over his comrades. "That's not manly! Real pioneers, conquerors of the prairie, only knelt on the left! They kept their right foot forward—so if a redskin attacked or a grizzly bear burst from the thicket, they could grab their tomahawk handle right away!"
"And do you have a tomahawk?" someone asked skeptically from behind.
"Not yet," Larry said, unperturbed. "But at the St. Louis fair they've got 'em by the wagonload. Genuine ones, with Indian carving. I'll buy myself one when I get the chance."
The lecture would have continued if not for the icy, piercing gaze slowly drifting over the rows of bowed heads. It was the gaze of Mr. Whitaker. It settled on Larry, and the kind of silence that precedes a storm fell over the classroom.
"Larry Botter," the principal said slowly, drawing out the words. "Since you're such an expert in matters of piety and battle stance, do us a favor. Come over here, to the corner, and demonstrate your method. And we'll all have a look. Only, instead of a tomahawk… here, take this poker. It'll serve as both a prayer staff and a weapon, just in case."
Larry, choking back a protest, nevertheless trudged to the indicated spot. A minute later, he stood in the corner, absurdly kneeling on one knee, a black poker in his hand held at the ready like a spear. He resembled either a strange saint or a very confused sentry.
"Right like the 'American Bison' at rest stop," a quiet, stifled observation escaped Archie's lips.
But his whisper in the classroom silence sounded like a gunshot. Someone nearby snorted, then another snickered. A second later, the entire class, including the most pious girls, was shaking with suppressed, choking laughter. The nickname stuck instantly and for good. "American Bison." It fit that absurd, warlike figure in the corner perfectly.
Even when the punishment ended and Larry, sullen and disheveled, returned to his seat, he didn't seem to bear Archie a grudge. On the contrary, he approached him himself during recess.
"'American Bison'…" he drawled, flaring his nostrils. "Sounds… fearsome. Almost like 'Chief Dreadful Feather.' Alright then, I forgive you. By the way," he lowered his voice, "they say you've got an old hoop at home… A metal one, for ring-toss games. True?"
Archie, caught off guard and wanting to somehow make up for the unintended mockery, nodded without thinking.
"Uh-huh… there is one…"
"Splendid!" Larry's face lit up. "Bring it tomorrow. I want to see it."
And he left, leaving Archie with the sudden, dawning realization that he had just lied. That hoop didn't exist in nature, and Larry, in his muddled way, had obviously confused him with someone else.
A small hope remained that Larry would forget, but it too vanished the very instant after school when Larry, passing by, said over his shoulder without even turning:
"And don't you dare 'forget' that hoop, MacCallum. Hear me? Or else I'll think up somethin' about your Mary. Somethin' interesting."
Archie's heart sank down to his boots, and from there, through his worn-out soles, it didn't run away entirely. He stood frozen, feeling a cold sweat break out on his back. This vague threat sounded more frightening than any specific danger. What did "think up" mean? Kidnap her, like pirates take hostages? Or, worse… He'd heard enough of Larry's stories about Indian customs of scalping their victims.
"I'll bring it!" he shouted after him, his voice trembling. "Tomorrow! I swear!"
Larry merely waved a hand, disappearing around the corner.
And Archie remained standing there by the school gates as if rooted to the spot. A heavy, cold stone of worry settled on his chest, chasing away even thoughts of home's warmth and a soon supper.
"What, you grown roots like a post? Not headin' home yet?"
The voice was familiar, quiet. Archie turned. Tommy Savage stood there, methodically chewing the last piece of his bread and bacon. His face expressed its usual, food-focused calm.
"I'm going…" Archie mumbled. "Just waitin' here a bit."
"Who for?" Tommy asked, showing no particular curiosity.
"Mary," Archie admitted in a strangled voice, bracing for mockery.
But Tommy only nodded, as if he'd heard someone say it looked like rain.
"Right."
And without another word, he set off again with his heavy, unhurried gait. Archie watched him go, and suddenly an acute, aching desire to share his trouble overpowered his caution.
"Tommy!" he called.
The boy stopped and turned.
Archie ran up, feeling his face burn.
"Listen… if I tell you… you won't tell a soul? Not a single soul?"
"Won't tell," Tommy answered simply, finishing the crumbs of his sandwich.
"It's this thing… Larry… he threatened me."
"Threatened you how?"
Archie, stammering, laid out the story about the nonexistent hoop and the ominous "think up."
Tommy listened attentively, without interrupting.
"Think up somethin'…" he repeated without expression. "He thinks up somethin' new every day. Yesterday he said he'd tamed a wild badger and keeps it in his shed for protection. Don't fall for his blather."
"But what if it's not blather?" Archie insisted, lowering his voice to a whisper. "What could it even mean—to 'think up' somethin' with a girl?"
Tommy looked at him directly, and for a moment something like pity for such childish naivete flickered in his eyes.
"Get married," he said distinctly. "It means get married. Announce to everyone she's his bride."
The world around Archie spun and swam. He'd been afraid of anything—kidnapping, a joke, mockery. But for Larry Botter to… get married? That was beyond the worst childhood nightmare.
"And she…" Archie's voice betrayed him with a tremble, "would she even agree?"
"No," Tommy shook his head with the same calm certainty. "Never. Things are real bad for the Botters. My pa heard—they're up to their eyeballs in debt. Their farm'll be sold at auction soon, for the debts. Then he won't have time for weddings."
"'At auction'?" Archie didn't understand.
"Auction. The bailiffs'll come, list all the property, and sell it to the highest bidder. And if the money don't cover the debts—his pa could end up in debtors' prison."
"And Larry?"
"Who knows…" Tommy shrugged. "But if the head of the family's in the hole, who's gonna let his son run free."
And then, in Archie's soul, like a sunbeam in a dark room, hope flared up. Bright, sharp, almost painful. He suddenly felt an inexplicable surge of joy and gratitude toward Tommy. He quickly shoved his hand into his school bag.
"Hey, you want my slate box? It's new," he offered impulsively in his joy.
Tommy looked at him with mild bewilderment.
"Don't need it. Got my own."
And saying goodbye, he started down the road again.
Archie, however, didn't walk; he ran. The stone had flown from his soul, and he felt lighter than down. When up ahead, around the bend, he saw a familiar little dress, he shouted, not slowing his pace, breathless from running and delight:
"Mary! Listen! Larry! They're done for! Debts! Their farm'll be sold at auction, and his father—they'll put him in prison! He won't have time for us now!"
He ran up to her, beaming, expecting to share his relief. And only then did he notice her wide-open eyes and the expression on her face, which held more horror than joy.