It had been a dog's age since Joseph Whitman had woke up in the morning still drunk from the night before. Most days, he was out early gathering eggs, feeding the hogs, and working in the orchard. His father, Eli, had poured 51 years of sweat into the dirt here, and Joseph figured to work the land until he dropped dead, too. He didn't have a son to carry on with the peaches after he passed, but he figured that he could sell someday to the Carters down the road, and they'd let him stay on the homestead and work as long as he was able to.
Today, though, was his birthday, and it was Sunday to boot. He was still spending what he figured was surplus money from this year's bumper crop, so he'd been standing drinks for men from all over White Bird last night, accepting their thanks along with their tales of hardship. Things weren't much better in White Bird than in the rest of Idaho, and only a little better than the rest of the country, from what the papers were saying. 1938 had been one more tough year in a string of them, for most folks, and things didn't appear to be looking up any time soon.
So Joseph had spent most of the day asleep, aside from an hour or so down at the creek soaking his aching head. In these final days of October, even the indian summer they were enjoying couldn't keep the creek from becoming too cold to swim in, but the rushing water numbed his throbbing head as well as anything he could think of.
He had been seriously thinking about climbing back into bed for the night for some time when he heard his telephone ring.
"Hello?"
"This is the operator speaking, is this Joseph Whitman?"
"Yes, it is."
"Sir, I have a Mrs. Whitman on the line with a long distance call. Mrs. Whitman, your party is on the line."
"Joseph, are you there?"
Joseph had remembered his birthday as soon as his mother's name was announced, but there was too much strain in her voice for this to be a social call.
"Mother, are you alright?"
"Joseph, I've been listening to the radio broadcast tonight, and I can't make any sense of it! These people, they say that they are from Mars..."
"From where?"
"From Mars, Joseph, the planet, and they've come down in spaceships that look like lightning, and they have been attacking people in upstate New York."
"They said this on the radio?"
"Yes, Joseph, an announcer came on while I was listening to the music, and at first they were saying that there were some storms, but now the man said that they have heat rays and that there have been people killed!"
"Well, what are we supposed to do? Do they want people to go outside, or stay inside? Are they going to build up the army to fight them?"
"I don't know, dear, I just know how much it rains out there, and I didn't want you to see some lightning and just think that it was going to rain! If you see lightning, son, just get out of there...drive up to Grangeville or Lewiston and find some people who are organized, maybe the county sheriff."
Joseph paused for a moment. He'd never met a member of law enforcement that he'd trust to know the right end of a hog to brand, and the thought of abandoning his family homestead...
"Alright, mother, don't you worry none. I'll get up to Lewiston first thing in the morning and find out what's what. You stay put where you are, you hear?"
"Your aunt Martha and I are not going anywhere, Joseph, believe me. You be careful, and you get up there to Lewiston and get some help...don't try to fight against those heat rays!"
"Alright, mother, good night..."
Joseph rang off and stood for a moment, lost in thought. He then turned and walked across the room to the gun rack above the sideboard, bringing down his shotgun. He grabbed a box of shells from the mantle and his heavy coat from the tree in the foyer. He was outside on the stump in the sideyard, shotgun loaded, eyes scanning the horizon in about three shakes of a lamb's tail.
He wasn't much given to thought, but his thoughts now ran to a man's place in the world, and what that meant when somebody came to take that place away from you, or someone you loved.
"I've been on this land for 38 years, and it's no point in running now, I guess. If folks from Mars are in need of peach-growing land, I'll be here to have my say about it, anyway..."
He wasn't sure if he'd been talking out loud, but it wouldn't much have mattered. The only answer was the swishing of leaves in his trees, and his vigil stretched out unbroken late into the evening, disturbed only slightly by the cold wave of fear that gripped him each time he caught sight of a shooting star.
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