Never lay your broom bristles head-up or you will find trouble just around the corner.

Pa’s big body blocked the bale of light on the floor. I kept my head down and bent into my sweepin. I didn’t dare to stop workin, and I knowed that if I looked at him the wrong way, he’d clout me.

“You,” Pa said as he slammed the door shut behind him. “You fetch up that scatter-gun and powder. We got a runaway, and I can git me fifty dollars if I catch her afore she leaves the county.”

Her. Pa had said “her,” and I knowed what that meant. I forced myself not to look down at the trapdoor. I put my hand to my mouth to stop a laugh from makin its way out. Sometimes when I’m plain scairt or sad, I laugh. Sure to earn me the back of Pa’s hand.

“Het it up!” Pa yelled. “Every man and hound from Purcellville to Hades is out lookin for her.”

A fresh round of howlin and barkin jarred me into movin. The dogs whined, scratched at the door, and tried to push their way inside. From somewhere far off, I heard another pack of dogs yippin like they was runnin a bear.

I set my broom bristles down proper-like in the corner, climbed onto the stool in front of the stone fireplace, and stood on tiptoe to reach his shotgun—shiny, smooth, heavy, and cold, as cold as Pa’s slatey eyes that squinted at me from acrost the room. I could feel them on my back.

“Grab the shot pouch and horn,” Pa said. “They want her alive, but they don’t say nothin about pickin buck and ball out of her dirty brown hide.”

Grandpa’s old shot pouch and powder horn hung from straps on a big iron hook in the mantel. I lifted them down and set them on the table as Pa brushed past me.

He started for the narrow ladder to the attic, turned, and said, “Put some victuals together for me.”

“Oh law,” I said under my breath. I’d have to go down to the cellar for some dried apples, jerky, and cracklins. I hadn’t made any bread yet, and they was the only things I had to hand.

I waited for Pa to climb the ladder afore I picked up his victuals sack and lifted the door. I wondered how the girl felt, trapped down in that dark hole and hearin all the commotion just a few feet above her.

A clank and a dull thump sounded from below.

I poked my fingers into the trapdoor holes, lifted it, and leaned over the openin.

“Shhhhhhh,” I hissed. “You get us both killt.” I scuttled down the steps. “Keep quiet or we goin to end up like our old sow Daisy hangin from them hooks.”

The girl set huddled in the dark amongst the near-empty barrels of potatoes and apples. She looked up at the meat swayin above her and rubbed the side of her head.

“We in trouble,” I said. “They close on your trail. Why didn’t you tell me?” She just set there and stared at me like I were speakin in tongues.

I moved past her and began to slide dried apple slices off a long thread of gut and into Pa’s pouch. I stepped over to the wooden racks filled with strips of jerky and cracklins curled like pine shavins. I never gets to eat much of the meat I dry, but today I couldn’t stop myself. First one piece and then another went into my mouth. I chewed quickly and swallowed so’s Pa wouldn’t smell it on me, then picked a wintergreen leaf out of my pocket and stuck it in my mouth.

The girl stood up and held out her hand. I passed her three small pieces, and she shoved one into her mouth. Then she pulled the dirty gray bandanna off her head, tucked two pieces inside it, and headed toward the ladder.

“Deer shot when it runs,” I said.

“But the man say he gonna shoot me,” she whispered.

I shook my head. “No, he ain’t, not so long as you keep quiet.”

The trouble girl turned back and crouched in the corner. She looked right wild.

An empty harvest basket set beside the steps. I picked some extra meat and apples, turnips and taters, and tucked them inside to fix for supper. I didn’t want to have to make any more trips down into the cellar.

“You stick right where you are,” I said, waggin my finger at her. I hooked the basket onto my arm, slung Pa’s victuals sack over my shoulder, and climbed the steps. When I poked my head above the floor, I heard Pa movin acrost the attic.

“What you goin to do? Run out the door and into that pack of dogs?” I asked, but I didn’t give her a chance to answer.

I climbed out, lowered the trapdoor into place, nudged the bench back over it, and set down the heavy basket.

Pa run into somethin, and it thudded onto the attic floor. A flood of bad words come from him. I grabbed my tin cup, gulped a mouthful of water, and scurried over to Pa’s powder horn. He were backin halfway down the ladder when I unscrewed the plug and spit the water into the horn. There weren’t no way he could shoot with his powder wet. Just as I replaced the cap, Pa’s boot hit the kitchen floor.