~~~
When I passed the field where my father had designed to spend his time, I didn't see him. Perhaps he had abandoned the work earlier than I. Old Bess was also not in sight. But then I noticed Pa's plow overturned between the furrows, and several of the corn stalks scattered about as though ripped from the ground by an angry hand. The sight puzzled me. My good-tempered parent would not do this to his crop.
I dropped my hold on Tom and ventured as far into the field as the disturbed place. What I hadn't been able to see before gave me pause. The corn stalks had been snapped. There was no way to save those plants. Anger bloomed and heated blood started a headlong rush toward my clenching fists.
"What's going on?" I muttered, and continued to look around. Now I saw that more than one pairs of shoes had made the prints in the mud here. Signs of a scuffle all around me, my anger turned to concern for my father's welfare as I decided he had been attacked.
Who had a grudge against Pa? I had no notion. He had always tried to get along with our neighbors, as this vicinity was mostly inhabited by peaceable folk. What could have changed that?
A cold chill flashed down my spine as I grasped hold of the thought that this might be the work of Hans Stiles. Hans and his layabout companions.
~~~
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