At that touch—­the first harshness she had ever felt from him—­something hot and flaming leaped through her.  She whirled away from him and caught up Aunt Dolcey’s big sharp butcher knife lying on the table; lifted it.

“You put your hands on me like that again and I’ll kill you!” Her voice was not high and shrill now; she did not even raise it.  “You and your getting mad!  You and your rotten, filthy temper!  You’d waste that wheat because you haven’t got enough sense to see what a big fool you are.”

She dropped the knife and walked past him, out of the kitchen, to the barn.

“Unc’ Zenas,” she called, “you hitch up the horses to the reaper.  I’m going to cut that near field to-day myself.”

“But, Miss Annie——­” began the old man.

“You hitch up that team,” she said.  “If there ain’t any men round this place, I don’t know’s it makes so much difference.”

She waited while the three big horses were brought out and hitched to the reaper, and then she mounted grimly to the seat.  She did not even look around to see if Wes might be watching.  She did not answer when Unc’ Zenas offered a word of direction.

“Let dat nigh horse swing round de cornahs by hisse’f, Miss Annie.  He knows.  An’ look—­here’s how you drop de knife.  I’ll let down de bars an’ foller you.”

Behind her back he made frantic gestures to Dolcey to come to him, and she ran, shuffling, shaken.  Together they followed the little figure in the blue calico dress, perched high on the rattling, clacking reaper.  Her hair shone in the sun like the wheat.

The near horse knew the game, knew how to lead the others.  That was Annie’s salvation.  As she swung into the field she had a struggle with the knife, but it dropped into place, and the first of the golden harvest fell before it squarely, cleanly; the stubble was even behind it.  She watched the broad backs of her team, a woman in a dream.  She did not know how she drove them; the lines were heavy in her hands, dragged at her arms.  It was hot, and sweat rolled down her forehead.  She wished vaguely that she had remembered to put on her sunbonnet.

Behind her came Unc’ Zenas and Aunt Dolcey, setting the sheaves into compact, well-capped stocks, little rough golden castles to dot this field of amazing conflict.

And now the reaper had come to the corner.  Unc’ Zenas straightened himself and watched anxiously.  But his faith in the near horse was justified—­the team turned smoothly, Annie lifted the blade and dropped it, and they started again, only half visible now across the tall grain.

Annie’s wrists and back ached unbearably, the sweat got in her eyes, but she drove on.  She thought a little of Wes, and how he had looked when she picked up that butcher knife.  She thought of his heavy hand on her shoulder, and her flesh burned where he had grasped it.

“I’m going to cut this wheat if it kills me.” she said over and over to herself in a queer refrain.  “I’m going to cut this wheat if it kills me!” She thought probably it would.  But she drove on.