Gordon Dickson - Wolf and Iron

Now, as he looked at the piece of axle stock, a wild idea came to him. Merry had told him to find something to do. He might as well do this. He had envisioned something like a long spear before this. Something with which Merry could at least hold off an animal like the cougar.

As the image took a firmer shape in his mind, he began to envision the axle hammered out, drawn and flattened to perhaps half again or more its length, and then perhaps cut in half and formed with a spearhead. Spearhead, and part shaft, of metal, that could form the front half of such a spear. The back half could perhaps be made from one of the pieces of water pipe, cut to length and one end fitted around the butt end of the front piece and then forge-welded to it.

He started heating the axle stock in the fire and hammering. As it began to flatten under the hammer blows he had a further inspiration. The spear should have a crossbar. In fact it should be something like the boar spear of the Middle Ages, in which a crossbar kept the boar from charging up the shaft of a spear embedded in the animal, in its frenzy to get to the man holding it and use its tusks on him.

The piece of axle stock was approximately one and a half feet long and one and a half inches in diameter and round. He hammered it out until it lengthened and flattened into what looked like a two-and-a-half-foot metal paddle with a one-inch-square handle some six inches long. The paddle end was three inches wide and three-eights of an inch thick.

He made two lengthwise cuts in the paddle end, using the hardy, that same small chisellike device that Nick had given him back at the wagon to start him in backwoods blacksmithing. The hardy had a square handle about an inch in diameter, which fitted through a hole in one end of his anvil with its triangular head pointed upward, its chisel edge providing a blade against which he cut the forge-heated metal. The paddle had now become a handle that had three pieces running forward from it.

Two of the pieces he spread out at ninety-degree angles, then cut them off at lengths of three inches. What he had left looked something like a rough metal blank for a sword, or cross, the handle being the top leg of the cross, the three-inch extensions on either side forming what would be its crossbar and the center section of the original paddle being either the long leg of the cross or the rough for the blade.

In this case, it was neither. The long leg would form the spear shaft and head.

He used the hammer to make this shaft definite, and hammered the far end of it into a wickedly barbed spearhead with backward-pointing tines a good four inches in length.

From one of his lengths of one-and-a-quarter-inch water pipe he cut off a two-inch length and fitted it over the short handle end of the front spear piece. Heating pipe and end together in the forge, he set them together on the anvil and hammer-welded them until they were one piece.

Finally he had a finished spearhead, ready to be mounted on a shaft, which preferably should be hardwood.

The woods all around the cave were pines. But he had brought up from the ranch last fall a number of the tools, including a rusty hoe, with a metal blade that was half broken off. He had had thoughts then of mending it in his forge; half as an experiment, half as an attempt to produce something useful for gardening.

Now he decided to sacrifice it as a hoe and simply cut off four feet of its wooden handle. Trimmed down somewhat, this slid into the end of the hollow pipe section he had just welded to his spear. After that it was merely a matter of using a punch to make a couple of holes opposed to each other on either side of the water pipe and then hammering a nail through the holes and wood. When it protruded through the further hole, he cut off the nail and flattened both ends so that it became a rivet, fastening the wood shaft into the metal spear end securely.

By the time he had reached this point it was just about noon, four days later, and he had become completely engrossed in making the spear. He was just flattening the ends of the nail he had cut off to use for a rivet when he heard Merry calling.

He threw the spear aside and ran back to the inner room. Wolf had already greeted them and left some three hours earlier, for which Jeebee now was grateful, because there was a note in Merry’s voice that had suddenly driven thought of everything but her from him.

He burst into the inner room, distractedly shoving the door to behind him, to find Merry sitting on the bed, smiling happily at him. The smile lasted for just a second before it disappeared in a moment’s stare of great intensity.

“It’s time, Jeebee,” she said in a remarkably calm voice. “The pains have been coming for some time, but I wasn’t sure. Now, I think the baby’s really ready to come!”

Jeebee stared at her. Abruptly, his mind was a complete blank. He could not remember the words of the books he had memorized, he could not remember what he was supposed to do.

“But it’s supposed to be three days yet—” he said stupidly.

“Well, it isn’t,” said Merry. “It’s now. Come, help me up on my feet. I’ve got to walk as much as possible.”

In the inner room, only two of the car interior lights were lit. The other two, headlamps and floodlight on the tripod over the birthing stool, were still dark. There was no fire in the fireplace, and to Jeebee the air seemed cool after being in the smithy. But by the light of the lamps Merry’s face and arms gleamed with a sheen of perspiration.

“I’ve had the enema,” she said, “about half an hour ago. I’m all cleaned out and ready. I’ve been resting a bit, but help me up now. As I say, I’ve got to walk.”

He moved to her automatically, but his mind was still adjusting to the fact that the baby had decided to put in an appearance three days ahead of schedule. He was grateful to Merry for being able to think for both of them in this first moment—for him of disbelief that the moment had actually arrived.

He took her hands and assisted her up off the bed. She could, he knew, have made it to her feet herself, but from here on she should save her strength as much as possible. The walking was good and necessary for her. Standing up from the bed was an unnecessary waste of strength.

She began to walk. “I’ve been having contractions for a while now,” she said. “They were about eight minutes apart to start. Lasting about a minute.”

Jeebee turned to a pad and pencil he had laid ready on a wall shelf, the pencil from his backpack, the pad made of paper scavenged from the ranch. He made a note of the time.

“How fast are they now?” he said with the pencil still in his hand. He looked at the faithful old watch with its hundred-year battery, still on his now sun-browned right wrist.

“Time them,” she answered, “Now. And… now!”

“Six minutes, fourteen seconds,” said Jeebee, looking up from the watch. “How long did you wait before calling me?”

“Not long. Calm down,” said Merry.

Jeebee made himself take a deep breath, “I’m calm—calmer,” he said, “I think.”

“Good,” said Merry. The ending of the word was a little tight between her teeth as a contraction hit her.

“Is there anything at all I can do?”

“You can walk along with me,” said Merry. “I’m a little clumsy.”

Jeebee walked with her.

For the next six hours Merry walked, and intermittently rested, sitting on the side of the bed. Jeebee checked for probably the twentieth time that he had triple sheets below her. Triple sheets with a plastic tarp between each. And he checked both bed and birthing area for cleanliness again. Everything seemed to be the way it should be. Above the birthing stool was the tripod with the crossbar that Merry would be able to hold to during the actual birth.