“We'll have a doctor soon.” Will emptied his cup and swirled the small pool of brown in the bottom. “Maybe we should talk to the Johnsons. I hate to see them go. There's been a steady trail of families leaving. At this rate, there won't be more than a handful left by winter.” He set his cup on the table. “Let's go over and talk to them.”
“Right now?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“It's late.”
“Folks don't get to bed so early these days, what with daylight hanging on so long. Tim told me they've been up close to midnight every night. Laurel and Luke can keep an eye on the kids.” He stood. “Besides, I could use a walk.”
“All right.” Jean grabbed a sweater off the back of her chair and pulled it on.
Will walked to the door and held it for her, then took her hand. “Tim thinks we ought to have a town meeting with the government supervisors.”
“Would that help?”
“Maybe.”
Will surveyed the crowded hall. The benches were filled, and people lined the walls. He wasn't surprised; he'd expected a big turnout. There were a lot of angry, frustrated citizens in the valley. Some residents were quietly tense, some griped among themselves, others argued. Adam Dunnavant stood just inside the door, camera around his neck and a writing tablet in his hand. He looked eager, keyed up. Ray Townsend and a few of his friends stood against the back wall. They talked among themselves, occasionally throwing disdainful looks at someone in the room. More than once Will noticed that Ray was casting hateful glances at Robert and wondered why. When he and Ray made eye contact, Will could feel the man's venom. How did I let Tim talk me into this, he thought. He felt a soft hand take his and looked down at Jean who sat beside Laurel.
Her eyes were heartening. “Trust the Lord. He'll sort this all out.”
Will squeezed her hand, then walked to the front of the room. “Could I have your attention, please?” No one heard. He raised his voice. “Could I have your attention, please?” He waited, but only a few stopped talking and looked at him. Finally he shouted, “Sit down. Please. We have a lot to talk about.” The room quieted.
“Thank you. I'm glad to see you all here tonight. I know a lot of you have questions and complaints for the camp supervisor, Mr. Sweet.” Will nodded at a pudgy man wearing an overly tight suit sitting at a table in the front. He looked uneasy. Will couldn't blame him. “Mr. Sweet will do his best to answer your questions. It will go more smoothly if only one person speaks at a time.” He smiled, hoping to set a pleasant tone. “I understand emotions are running high, but fighting among ourselves won't solve anything. So, please remember to respect your neighbor.” Ray sneered and leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. Will acted as if he hadn't noticed.
Alex Pettersson stood. “When are our houses going to be finished? And why can't we work on them?”
The administrator stood, removed his glasses, and peered at the stout, longhaired troublemaker. “I'm sorry about the holdup, but several houses are well on their way to being finished. The government decided it would be better if we hired men to build your houses. They know construction.”
“That's a laugh,” someone shouted.
Mr. Sweet glanced in the direction of the voice, then unable to determine who had spoken, looked at the crowd. “You folks are farmers and can't be expected to know how to build houses.”
A large man wearing blue overalls stood, and in a booming voice, asked, “Who do you think we are—know-nothings?”
“We know a lot more than you think we do,” another man called.
“Yeah, you're treating us like children,” Ed Ketchum added.
Drew Prosser stood. He had his hands in his overall pockets and appeared calm. Keeping his voice low and steady, he said, “Mr. Sweet, the resentment you hear comes from frustration. These men know how to take care of their families, but they're feeling hog-tied.” Murmurs of agreement moved through the crowd. “A lot of us know carpentry. We've been farming all our lives, which means we have to know how to do most everything on our places, including building. And just like the rest of these men, I want to help build my home.”
Mr. Sweet wiped his glasses with a handkerchief and resettled them on his nose. “I'm sorry, Drew, but it's been decided. The answer is no.”
His face red and taut, Tim Johnson stood and stepped into the aisle separating the rows of benches. “See, Will, like I told you—domination. They loan us thirty-two hundred dollars and feel they've got the right to run everything. We've lost control over our own lives. It's dangerous. We might as well be living in a Communist country.” He glared at Mr. Sweet.
Beads of sweat had popped out on the administrator's forehead. He mopped them with a handkerchief. “We're not power hungry. We're not Communists. We have a plan if you'll just let us implement it. Try to be patient. I agree it's not a good idea to keep you from building your houses, but I don't make the decisions.”
Knowing it was time to take a stand, Will faced Mr. Sweet. “Sir, I don't mean any disrespect, but this colony is running out of time. We only have two or three months before winter sets in. We're going to work on our houses whether you or anybody else says we can. We have a right, and we're starting tomorrow. I'll be out at my place first thing in the morning.”
Cheers and words of agreement echoed around the room. It was clear the government wouldn't have its way in this.
Ray Townsend stepped away from the wall. “What I want to know is why these freeloaders got a house at all? Us homesteaders came up here and proved up our places on our own. We got no help from the government.” His curls shook as he bobbed his head in anger. “Nothin' was handed to us. We're still scratching to make a living and you're giving away houses, food, animals, and farm equipment. Anything these people want, they get,” he bellowed. “There are families in this valley who can barely feed themselves.” He folded his arms over his chest and turned a condemning gaze on Mr. Sweet, then Will.
“Mr. Townsend, isn't it?” the administrator asked.
“That's right.”
“We're not giving them anything. They're merely borrowing from the government. They have loans that will have to be paid back.”
Alex Pettersson jumped to his feet. “Yeah, so if we've got to pay it back, why has the government put us on a budget? We can't work anywhere but on our farms, and we need more money.”
Resentful murmuring snaked through the room.
Mr. Sweet glanced at Will as if looking to him for the answer.
Will turned to Alex. Just as he'd feared, people were getting riled. If something wasn't done, they'd soon be out of control. Father, give me wisdom, he prayed silently. “Alex, is anyone in your family going hungry?” he asked, making sure his voice remained steady and calm.
“Not exactly. But we can't get a lot of things we need.”
“I'd like to answer your question,” Mr. Sweet said. He looked at Alex. “Sir, the fact is that every penny you borrow you'll have to repay. We wanted to be certain that families don't find themselves in such deep debt they can't pay it back. We decided a budget would help. After much consideration, we came up with an amount we considered reasonable.” He sipped water from a glass that sat on the table in front of him. “If you have a special need, you can always file a request for additional money.”
Robert Lundeen was the next to stand. “There's something else we need to talk about. It may not seem important to some of you, but my sister had a run-in with a pack of dogs the other night. If I hadn't come along when I did, she might have been hurt or even killed. Some folks aren't keeping their dogs under control.”
“I tell you what, if any dogs come grousing around my tent at night, I'm gonna shoot ‘em,” Alex said.
