Well the crick was well within both line of sight and earshot; she could be back to Jeb in a lick if someone was out there. She told herself sternly that nothing bad had happened; in fact, whoever had been piling up that wood for her had been doing her a favor. Maybe it was a trapper or hunter who didn’t like to bother other people, or thought he might frighten her with his wild appearance. She knelt beside the crick, found a good piece of sandstone to scrub with, and scoured away.

When she brought back the immaculate spade, the sunset had turned the tops of the trees above them to flame, and in the deepening shadow beneath the trees and in the little meadow, the campfire Jeb had lit looked very welcoming. He took the shovel from her and directed her to ferns to break off and grasses to tear up until she had a decent pile in the wagon bed.

At that point she was so tuckered out that she dropped down next to the fire and stared at it for a long time before she realized that, besides the ears of corn roasting in their shucks at the edge of it, Jeb had the blade of the shovel over the coals and was frying the fish in it.

She blinked in surprise at how clever that was. She never would have thought of doing that!

The basket with the remains of the blackberries and the termaters was between them, and as Jeb tended the fish, he ate ’maters absently. She reached in and got one herself, and bit into it. It was wonderful. Much better than the peaches of her imagination.

Jeb had split one of the larger chunks of wood in half, and presently he scraped some of the fish off onto the raw, fresh wood of each half. He’d left the skin on, so while the skin stuck to the shovel, the meat didn’t. He turned the shovel on its side in the middle of the fire to burn the skin off, then reached into the chest pocket of his overalls and pulled out a twist of paper, sprinkling some of the salt that was in there onto each pile of fish and bones. Once again, he clasped his hands and said a brief “grace.” “Don’t et them bones,” he warned her as he handed her the chunk of wood. “Go slow and be careful.”

She was no stranger to catfish. Before Pa had got Miner’s Cough, if he had time and strength, he’d take a try at catching a fish or two himself. ’Twasn’t as easy as catching ’em from the ferry—lots of competition, for one thing. But it was always worth trying. Fishing was free, so were worms, and you could get a decent meal without debt to the Company store.

The fish was hot, so she had to be careful not to burn her fingers; she knew to go slow and mindful and eat nibbles, not bites. She even knew to suck the bones bare and put them in a pile at her feet. When the roasted ears came out of the fire, all they needed was a squoze of ’mater juice to hold the salt, and they was heaven.