"You can finish the building yourself, can't you?"
"Yeah. 'Tain't naught to do but finish the roof, chink her, an' finish the innards. Ain't no hurry nohow. Injuns won't be down for a spell yet an' emmy-grants will be later. If I lag too far behint I'll get one of 'em to help me. Do you know whar you're goin' in Oregon?"
"No. I'll have to decide after we get there."
"I ain't tellin' you what to do, but if you want real good country whar you can take your pick, thar's some a mite beyond Fort Boise. Preacher named Whitman used to have a mission near thar until he an' ever'body elst in the mission was kilt by Injuns, mebbe a dozen years back. Army post, Camp Axton, not too far away. About half a day west of Axton you'll come to a crick. Clear as a bell she is, an you can't go wrong on account the white stones in the crick. Turn north on the east bank an' you'll come to some medders whar the grass grows high's a pony's head. Emmy-grants haven't liked to stop thar sinst the Whitman massacre, but it's a good place if you've a mind to look at it."
"I might just do that," Joe decided. "How are the Indians now?"
Snedeker shrugged. "Like they allus are. You can get along with 'em if you want to. Just let 'em know your rifle's loaded an' you can shoot it, but don't shoot unless you have to. You, Ellis an' that sharp-shootin' kid of yours won't have too much to trouble your heads about. Besides, thar's goin' to be more emmy-grants findin' them medders an' a settlement will go up thar. If you do like it, an' want to stake out some of them medders, build away from the crick. She can be a real rampagious thing when she gets high."
They climbed down the ladder. Ellis sawing apertures for windows, came out of the building to join them. His eyes sought and found Barbara, who was washing clothes on a bench beside the cabin. A little smile lighted his face, and Joe thought curiously that, when he looked that way, he was not at all like Percy Pearl.
"Tuck your shirt tail in an' hitch up your belt!" Snedeker called. "You're shovin' off in the mornin', so let's get the wagon loaded!"
They started in the early dawn, while a light drizzle dripped from a cloudy sky and wispy tendrils of mist lingered like the dresses of ghosts in every sheltered nook and gully. Barbara remained in the wagon to look after the little ones, and Ellis rode up ahead on King. The hat Barbara had knitted for him planted firmly on his head, Snedeker stood in the doorway of his post and waved good-by. They waved back, and all were light-hearted and gay. Their stay at Snedeker's had been pleasant, but they were going to Oregon and Snedeker would not be lonely for very long. While the lost wagon hit the trail west, other wagons were starting from various points on the Missouri. Snedeker would have company and he would fit in nowhere except here.
They rounded a bend and Snedeker's post was lost to sight. Nobody looked back any more, but only ahead. Ahead lay Oregon.
They had been a month on the Trail. Behind them lay a land of startling contrast and grim beauty. They'd forded or ferried rivers and creeks that wound out of fastnesses so remote and silent that they seemed to have no end. Weird formations of varicolored rocks had formed desolate little wildernesses all by themselves. Cloud-stabbing peaks with snow-whitened summits had loomed in the distance. It was not a gentle country nor was it a place for timid people. But to the hardy of soul and the strong in heart who were able to face the challenges it flung, it was good.
Tad loved it, and Joe responded to it. Emma did not like it. For her it was too vast, too big and too grim, and while she appreciated its beauty she hoped that Oregon would be more soft and gentle. Little Joe frowned while he sought answers to problems which he felt must exist here and the rest of the young children were merely curious. Tired of the day-after-day riding, they wanted little now except to find the end of the journey and to be suitably diverted en route.
Barbara and Ellis, aglow with love for each other, saw the land they were passing through in a sort of happy daze. Each day was marvelous because each day they could be together, but the most imposing scenic view or the most majestic mountain meant less to them than a moon or star-lit evening when they could walk beneath soft light and be away on the magic wings that are granted all young lovers. While they were with those in the wagon they were at the same time apart from them. To each, the most important thing in the world was the other. A word, or a gesture, which in ordinary living would be commonplace, acquired a meaning and a significance all its own. Their private world was a wonderful place which no one else could enter.
They had seen no Indians but they were in Indian country. The mules and the cow were always staked close to the wagon and were never left unwatched. Guard duty was a source of special delight to Tad who always took the first watch in the first couple of hours after nightfall. Mike beside him, the rifle Snedeker had given him clutched firmly in both hands, Tad investigated every small sound that occurred and when there weren't any he invented some. To Tad's great disappointment no Indians had appeared yet, but he hadn't lost hope. Each night, at ten o'clock, Tad went grudgingly to the bed while Joe took over until two. The third watch was Ellis's.
Ellis lay prone in the grass, his head resting on cupped hands and his rifle beside him. Near by, the mules had eaten as much as they wanted and were standing close together. The tethered cow had lain down to chew her cud, and the wagon's stained cover seemed pure white in the night's unreal glow. Ellis's big horse stamped a hoof and switched flies with its tail. Ellis raised his head to look at the horse and settled back to watch the star-studded sky.
It seemed to him that his life had had three phases. The first was his childhood, and he remembered his gay and gentle mother. She had soothed his cut fingers, skinned knees, heartbreaks, all the little tragedies of childhood that are unimportant to almost everyone except a child. Vividly, Ellis remembered riding with her, she on a spirited horse while he bestrode a pony. It had always seemed to him that they could ride forever.
The second, which Ellis thought of as his sterile phase, came after his mother died. His father was affectionate and kind, and in his own way he had been proud of Ellis. But he had been too preoccupied with gambling and his numerous enterprises to give enough attention to his son. Ellis had been grief-stricken when he died, but it was not the complete desolation he had known when his mother passed away.
The years when Uncle George had been in charge of him were the worst of all—Uncle George, the sanctimonious cheat who had come into possession of most of the family fortune, and by methods so legalistic and clever that even Ellis's friends, who wanted to help him, could do nothing. But that was all in the past. Ellis had hated George at the time, but later events had made that hatred seem somehow dim and unimportant.
The third phase, a short one, had centered about Mary Harkness, a vivacious, pretty, intelligent little brunette. Ellis had thrown himself heart and soul at her feet. He knew now that she had never wanted him there and had tried, as politely as possible, to tell him so. But Ellis's whole world had crashed when Mary married another.
Now, Ellis felt, he was entering upon the fourth and most worth-while phase of his life. It seemed to him that, until he met Barbara, he had never known his capacity for feeling. It was almost like living for twenty years without ever having been fully alive. In Barbara lay fruition and in her was the only possible life. Ellis knew, and he was grateful to Mary Harkness because she had helped him now. Ellis knew also that Emma trusted him pretty much, though not entirely, and he had a feeling that Joe trusted him not at all. At the thought of Joe's worried and suspicious eyes watching him, Ellis felt the familiar rage and resentment beginning to surge up in him, and he clamped down hard on it because conquering his temper was the one thing he was determined to do.
Suddenly he sat up and grasped his rifle in both hands. Out of the night had come a sound that should not be. A moment later a shadow moved before him and Ellis's heart leaped.
"Bobby!"
"I couldn't sleep," she said softly. "I came out to see you."
He rose, encircled her slim waist with his arms and kissed her. Their lips parted but their arms remained about each other while they looked at the stars and for the moment they were the whole world.
Ellis said, "I wish we were in Oregon."
"Why?"
"So I could marry you."
She said dreamily, "I wish we were there too." Then she smiled. "Mother and Daddy were funny about insisting that all of us be settled in Oregon before we could get married."
"Settled,andwith a roof over our heads," he reminded her. He grinned dryly. "Guess maybe they're still not sure I'm capable of putting up a roof."
"Oh, they think you're capable, all right." She giggled. "I guess they think you might take a fancy to some other girl. You know, an impulse. You've got lots of impulses, Ellis Garner!"
"You're absolutely right," he agreed. "I've got an impulse right now to kiss you twice." He did so. "And to build a big, beautiful home for us and our twenty children." His voice settled into a soft, crooning rhythm. "I'll build a palace for my queen," he promised, "all of pure white marble. But the colors inside will be warm and beautiful, like you. And every day I'll bring you milk and honey, and all the rest of the time I'll be happy just to look at you."
She laughed gently. "Oh no, Ellis. It will be a nice log house, with a big kitchen where I can make the things you like, and every day when you come in from the fields you'll bring me wild flowers. Except in winter, of course. Then you can bring me evergreen branches with bittersweet to trim them so I can always have everything looking just the way you want it to look."
They stood together while the night wore on and dawn came. Ellis turned with a guilty start.
"I shouldn't have kept you up!"
"Iwantto be up. This is more fun than sleeping!"
"You aren't tired?"
"Truly I'm not."
"Do you want to ride ahead this morning?"
"Oh yes!"
Hand in hand they walked back to the wagon. Ellis built a fire and heated water. Coming from the wagon, Joe stretched and went to look at the mules. A moment later, Emma had a gentle greeting and a caressing look for the two young people. They sat side by side and ate breakfast. Then Ellis saddled his horse and both mounted.
This was part of their ritual, something they did every day, and they told themselves that they were scouting the trail. But in reality, the wagon was slow and the horse was fast. He provided the wings which their fancies created for them. Barbara, no more than a feather's weight, encircled Ellis's waist and they were off. They would ride perhaps four or five miles, then walk together, leading the horse, until the wagon caught up with them. But this morning they were scarcely out of sight of the wagon when they saw them.
They were coming up the Trail, a dozen men mounted on tough, wiry little horses, and Ellis needed no second glance to know that they were Indians. He clenched his long rifle and whispered,
"See them?"
"I see them," she whispered back.
They were walking their horses, but when they saw Ellis and Barbara they broke into a trot. Barbara's arms tightened about him, and Ellis said gently,
"Don't be afraid."
She shivered. "They—they're coming."
"But they can't catch us."
He wheeled his big horse and let him thunder back the way they had come. Barbara's fear ebbed. Ellis, she told herself, would know what to do. He always knew. They came in sight of the wagon and Joe stopped the mules. Ellis reined alongside.
"Indians," he said quickly. "We'd better be ready."
Tad, who had wanted an Indian fight but who was now shaken at the prospect of one, leaned against the wagon wheel with his rifle in his hands. He stopped shaking and looked to the priming of his rifle while his jaw set grimly. Joe sat on the seat, his rifle ready. Ellis and Barbara remained on King. Just before the Indians came, Ellis spoke sharply and with authority. "We're outnumbered, Joe. We don't want a fight. We won't raise a gun unless they do—and then we'll shoot to kill. But remember, and you too, Tad! Don't raise your gun unless I say so."
The Indians came.
They stopped about twenty feet away, twelve grim men whose garb and coloration revealed that they were Indians and whose faces revealed nothing. Two had rifles, the rest bows and arrows. They were looking at the mules, the horse, the wagon and Barbara. As though he never had thought that he could be stopped, as though nothing could stop him, a brave on a black pony rode up to Ellis. But he ignored Ellis and examined Barbara gravely. Joe's hand clenched over his rifle stock, waiting for a signal from Ellis. Ellis made no sound.
The Indian lifted his hand as though to touch Barbara's hair. Tad froze and nearly cried out. Joe leaned tensely forward, the lining of his throat dry.
Still there was no sound or movement from Ellis.
The Indian's hand touched Barbara's hair. She did not flinch. With his hand still on her hair, the Indian now turned to look full into Ellis's eyes. It was a long look, silent, mysterious and compelling, and Ellis returned it without moving, without blinking. The silence was intense, and through it the only sound was the quick, harsh breathing of Emma inside the wagon, clutching baby Carlyle to her breast. Barbara gritted her teeth and thought that in one more instant she would scream.
The Indian's hand stroked her hair gently, as though the feel of it was something strange and wonderful. Then his hand fell away. He reined his horse around and, without a sound and without a change of expression, the twelve men turned and galloped back the way they had come.
Still encircling Ellis, Barbara's arms went limp. Joe sat silently on the wagon seat, not yet fully comprehending what had happened because it had happened too fast to permit full comprehension. But this much he knew. Ellis, the hot-tempered one, the impulsive one, had showed the greatest nerve and steadiness of them all. Ellis had saved them from a bloody and losing battle. Tad, too, recognized this. His eyes, fixed on Ellis, were adoring and would forever adore.
Tad looked at his sister, the luckiest of all girls.
The sun was warm and good on the wagon cover, and green grass that had not yet reached the fullness of its maturity grew in and on both sides of the Oregon Trail. It was grazed a little but not heavily, for the few travelers they'd met had been coming east from Oregon. There were Mountain Men with sometimes only the horse they rode, the clothes they wore, and the rifle they carried. Others had from two to as many as thirty pack animals, loaded either with furs or with goods that they were taking to Fort Boise. But the Oregon Trail, probably the longest, widest, and most heavily traveled in the history of the world, had not yet known the great press of traffic that it would know as soon as land-hungry emigrants reached this place. That would be months; the fastest-traveling wagons wouldn't get here until the last part of August or the first part of September.
Ellis and Barbara, on Ellis's horse, had gone down the Trail together. Carrying his short rifle proudly, Tad walked beside the wagon and Mike padded at his heels. The back flaps were open to allow free passage of air and the youngsters crowded at the back, looking out. They were in Oregon, the Promised Land, and they remained so interested that they played their games only at sporadic intervals. Sitting beside Joe, Emma had taken off her bonnet and a soft wind played with her silky hair. Emma knew a great peace and a quiet happiness. For almost a year they had been homeless wanderers and now, soon, they were once again to have a home.
"Look at the land here!" Joe gloated. "Look at the grass! A man wouldn't have to be much of a farmer to grow crops in land like that!"
"I love it, Joe!"
"So do I!"
Joe drew a long breath. He had his ax, his rifle and his tools. The mules were his and so was the cow. Everything a man could possibly need was at hand, but it was different because complete freedom was present here too. The next time Joe plowed a field he would be plowing it for himself and not for Elias Dorrance. Joe slapped the reins over the mules' rumps to make them walk a little faster. Then he eased all rein pressure while a little fright rose within him.
Both mules had started out briskly that morning, and he had given them only cursory attention, but now he saw that the mare mule was walking with her head down and ears drooping. She was unsteady on her feet, and when Joe slapped the reins she swayed from side to side. Emma saw it too, and the alarm she felt was plain in her voice,
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know."
The team halted as soon as he spoke, and the horse mule turned a questioning head toward his mate. He sniffed softly at the mare, and Joe hopped from the wagon seat to walk to the head of the team. The horse regarded him anxiously, but the mare stood tiredly in harness with her nose almost touching the Trail. Gently, Joe took hold of their bridles and led them into grass. The mare gasped for breath.
"She's sick!" Joe said. "We'll have to stop!"
Tad came over. His rifle, that had not been out of his sight since he'd owned it, hung in the crook of his arm and concern was written on his face.
"What's wrong, Pa?"
"I don't know."
As gently as possible he unhitched the team, and stripped their harnesses off. The horse mule he picketed, but the mare was left unhampered. She walked a few uncertain steps and halted. The horse followed anxiously, and stood very close to her. He moved aside when Joe came in for a closer examination. Soothing the sick beast with his voice, he lifted her flabby lips and looked inside her mouth. Her tongue was hot, her breath foul.
Joe stepped back. He had considered himself familiar with mules and the diseases of mules, but he was not familiar with this. It must be something peculiar to western country; maybe last night or this morning the mule had eaten something that poisoned her. Or perhaps it was the result of some poisonous insect's bite. It was not snake poison; Joe was familiar with snake-struck mules and he knew that, if they were rested, they would recover. He filled a bucket at the water barrel and held it under the mare's muzzle, but she took only a few sips and staggered away. The children watched concernedly and Emma asked,
"Is she going to die, Joe?"
Suddenly the distances again seemed vast and the Trail forlorn. For the first time Joe realized completely just how dependent they were upon the mules and how lost they would be without them. A broken wagon might be repaired, but one mule couldn't pull it. Joe turned to the medicine he carried in his tool chest and he shook the brown bottle. But even as he did so he felt the hopelessness of it. This was Missouri medicine and the mule had an Oregon ailment. Tad called,
"She's down!"
Joe turned to see the mule fallen in the grass and making a valiant effort to hold her head up. But even as he looked her head lowered, so that she lay prostrate, and the heavy rasp of her labored breathing was terrible to hear. Breath rattled in her throat and there were a few short gasps. Then silence. The horse mule raised his head and tail and delivered an ear-splitting bray. Very gently, walking slowly, the horse went to his dead mate and touched her with his muzzle.
Emma looked to Joe, and she saddened, because more than at any time during the entire trip, Joe now looked distraught and worried. She knew that these were not the rich, flat, well-watered meadows that Snedeker had talked about. They must travel farther, and to be forced to stop now, and thus lose precious plowing and planting days for the first season's crop, was a bitter disappointment. They were more helpless, actually, than they had been at any time before for how, in this vast uninhabited wilderness, did a person go about buying a mule? Joe squared his shoulders and tried to conceal his own worry. They could not stay here but, obviously, neither could they go on.
"Ellis will be back soon," he said. "We'll hitch his horse with the other mule."
The horse mule lingered near his dead mate, looking fixedly at her, and Joe turned away. For seven years the team had worked together in harness. They knew each other as no man can hope to know a mule, and mules are sensitive. The horse knew what had happened and there was none to share his grief. Emma said pityingly,
"Poor beast, poor faithful beast."
Joe muttered, "I wish Ellis would come."
But another hour passed before Ellis and Barbara came riding back up the trail down which they had ventured so happily. Ellis drew the horse to a walk and the laughter that had been his faded.
Joe saw quick hurt flood Barbara's face and tears glisten in her eyes. She slid from the horse and stood for a moment looking at the dead mule. Then she disappeared around the wagon. Even while his heart went out to her, Joe knew misgivings. Barbara had never been able to see anything she liked hurt, but this was a new country where some things were bound to get hurt. How many more hurts would she have in the west?
"Lost a mule." Joe could not keep the worry from his voice. "I don't really know what happened. Let's hitch your horse in with the other one and get out of here."
"Right."
Ellis slid from his horse and unsaddled him. The horse stood quivering, a little afraid, when Joe approached with the mare mule's harness. He was a saddle mount and had never worn a harness, but he had complete faith in Ellis. The horse pushed a trusting muzzle against his master while Joe adjusted the harness to fit. Joe said,
"Bring him over."
Joe leaped just in time to avoid the mule's lunge, and the bridle was jerked from his hand. The animal went berserk. His ears were back. Eyes blazed and his awful mule's mouth was savagely open as he leaped at the horse. Coming to the end of his picket rope, he was brought up short and reared to paw the air with furious hoofs while he squealed his rage.
The horse was plunging too, dragging Ellis as he sought to avoid the fury coming at him. He snorted and reared, and allowed himself to be halted only when a hundred yards separated him from the enraged mule. The horse rolled his eyes and shivered. He eyed the mule, ready to run again should it come again. But once the horse was chased to a safe distance the mule merely returned to his dead mate and stood quietly near her. He did not resent Joe's presence and he made no protest when Joe stroked him softly. But the horse could not come near.
Joe said, "Well have to get another mule."
"Do you think he'll work with one?"
"He won't work with the horse."
"I'll get a mule," Ellis said.
"Where?"
Ellis set his jaw. "Ride down the Trail until I find one."
He took the mare mule's harness from his horse and put the saddle back on. Barbara came from behind the wagon and Joe looked wonderingly at her. There had been tears, but there weren't any now. She walked straight, her shoulders braced as Tad braced his. Joe had a curious feeling that he no longer knew this lovely youngster. She had left Missouri a young girl; now she was a young woman. Joe knew suddenly that she would never again throw herself, sobbing, into his arms. She had learned to cope with her own fears and heartbreaks. There was a touch of almost wifely solicitude in her voice.
"You be careful, Ellis."
"Don't you be worrying about me."
"Here." Joe took out his wallet. "You'll need money."
"I've got some."
He kissed Barbara, mounted, and set off down the Trail.
Joe watched him go, and as the young figure sitting jauntily astride his horse disappeared over the horizon Joe knew a twinge of apprehension. If Ellis found a mule pretty soon, he'd likely bring it back. But if he had to go very far, and a mule was too hard to find, and if he came upon some other traveling family in which there was a pretty girl and he received a warm invitation or a good offer—No, no, Joe told himself. Ridiculous. Ellis was made of better stuff than that. And then, in order to reassure himself, he turned to Barbara and said, "He'll be back, Bobby."
Her voice was calm. "Of course he'll be back. And he'll bring a mule."
Joe turned away. Bobby's love and faith shamed him but frightened him, too. If anything went wrong between Ellis and Barbara—but nothing could go wrong. Nothing would dare to go wrong. He felt himself fully capable of wringing Ellis's neck if he were to cause Bobby any unhappiness, and at the same time he recognized that wringing Ellis's neck was not likely to insure Barbara's happiness.
Joe set himself to the tasks in hand. "I'll get firewood," he said.
Their meal was a silent and listness one, for the loss of the mare was deeply felt. For endless miles she had been one of their party, and now she was no more. She had helped pull the wagon all this way, but she would not share the home they were to have at the end of the Trail.
Darkness fell. Emma and the children sought their beds in the wagon. But Joe was restless and he had no wish to sleep. He stood under the star-dappled sky and let the soft spring wind caress his cheek. The wind whispered to him and the earth seemed to pulse around him. There were no other sounds save the cow moving about and the occasional shuffle of the horse mule's hoofs. He still stood watch over his dead mate and Joe felt sorry for him. But such things did happen and there was nothing anyone could do about them. People had to weather their own misfortune and prove stronger than ill luck, because if they did not they were lost. Mules, Joe supposed, must do the same.
He sat on the wagon tongue feeling himself in tune with this new land that he had decided to call home, and knowing it for a good land. Mike padded up to crouch beside him, and Joe reached out in the star-lit night to pet the dog.
There came the sound of hoofs from down the Trail and Joe reached inside the wagon for his rifle. He stood quietly, the rifle ready, and waited for Mike to bristle or challenge. But the dog remained quiet and Joe relaxed. An enemy would not approach openly. He heard Ellis's,
"It's me."
He came slowly on his horse, and by the light of the stars Joe saw that he was leading a black mule. The horse mule called softly, walked to the end of his rope, and stared. The mule knew what was coming and he would welcome one of his own kind where he would not tolerate a horse.
Joe said, "You got one, huh?"
"I got one."
"Where'd you get him?"
"Stole him," Ellis replied tersely.
Joe stood rooted in his tracks. Ellis's statement hit him like a thunderbolt. He licked dry lips.
"That's right," Ellis said. "A couple of trappers have about forty mules in a corral up the trail. When I asked them to sell me one they didn't seem interested. I waited until nightfall and took one." He fixed Joe with a tired and angry glare. "Any complaints?"
Joe's jaw worked. The boy's headstrong action, and the cool way he told about it, frightened Joe anew. What other willful and dishonest actions was he capable of? What was his Bobby getting into?
He tried to control himself. "You shouldn't have done that, Ellis."
Ellis squared around to face him. "I expected you to say exactly that," he muttered. "Just how did you expect us to move on without another mule?"
Joe had no immediate answer. He stood quiet, staring unhappily into Ellis's sullen face. "We'll take him back," he said.
"If that's the way you want it," Ellis said.
In the darkness, Joe walked to the black mule and laid a hand on his powerful neck. The mule smelled him over and nibbled Joe's arm with his lips. Ellis had brought no bronco, but a harness-broken mule. Joe tied a rope to his halter and picketed him in the grass. The horse did not protest when he was led away from the mare and picketed near.
Joe said shortly, "Better turn in, Ellis."
"All right."
Ellis spread his bedroll beside the wagon while Joe sought his bed inside. It was true that they had to have a mule and, in Ellis's place, he didn't know what he might have done. He supposed he'd have continued on farther until he could buy a mule, even if it took another day or two. But it wasn't only the stealing of the mule—it was Ellis's calm way of reporting it that shocked him. The calm way, he knew, was a cover-up for real anger. But why the anger? The whole thing worried him and it was some time before he could fall asleep. When he awakened the soft light of early dawn had found its way into the wagon. Joe lay quietly for a few minutes. They must return the stolen mule, or else arrange to pay for it, but they might as well hitch both and drive down to the trappers' corral. Joe climbed out the rear of the wagon and made his way to the front.
He heard the crack of the rifle, and felt the bullet smack into the ground at his feet. Shocked with surprise, Joe stood still and for a moment his mind was incapable of directing his body. Still half asleep, Ellis sat up in his bedroll. There came a voice.
"Don't neither of ye move thar! Stand right still thar!"
They came from behind a huge boulder whose arched back lifted from the earth about sixty yards away. They were two men dressed in greasy buckskin and with long black hair brushing their shoulders. The man who had shot carried a rifle in the crook of his arm but there was a pistol in his hand. They advanced purposefully, menacingly, and the morning wind ruffled their shaggy hair.
"Move," the smaller one said, "an' I'll drill ye clean. Bring him up, Pete."
Holstering his revolver, the tall man untethered the black mule and brought him up to the wagon. Joe had a glance for the mule, a powerful beast that had not yet shed his long winter hair. The brisk wind played with it, laying it back along the black mule's flank and ribs. The smaller man looked at Joe's horse mule.
"Mought's well have 'em both. Git that one too."
"Now wait a minute—" Joe began.
"Don't 'wait a minute' me. My finger's right oneasy on this trigger an' I'd just as soon shoot a mule rustler."
"We were going to bring him back."
The smaller man laughed jeeringly and another rifle cracked as Tad shot from behind the wagon. There was a sodden "splat" as the bullet struck the muzzle of the rifle covering Joe and Ellis. It snapped out of the short man's hands, dropped to the ground, and as it did the black mule began to rear. The man holding him reached frantically for his revolver, but he needed both hands on the rope. Ellis dived to his bedroll and rose to a kneeling position with his own rifle.
"Suppose," he said almost pleasantly, "that you two take a turn at not moving! I can shoot, too."
Rage overspread the smaller man's face. The mule quieted, and the man holding him tried to slip beside him. But Joe had his rifle and Tad was reloading.
Joe said quietly, "Get the mule, Ellis."
Ellis walked up to take the black mule. He led him aside, and Joe remained quiet.
"You two drop your guns."
They let their firearms fall to the ground. Joe ordered, "Now get out. You can pick up your guns after we leave. But if we see either of you again, we'll shoot to kill."
They strode back toward where they'd left whatever mounts they'd ridden here. Pale and shaken, Emma got out of the wagon to stand beside Joe.
"Joe, those men will give us trouble!"
Ellis, standing beside the black mule, spoke to Joe. "How come you didn't give them back their mule?"
"Because it isn't their mule," Joe said. "Those men are rustlers. All they'll do is hightail it back to wherever they left their other stolen stock and get out of the country."
"Exactly," said Ellis. With his hand he parted the hair on the mule's side, revealing a brand. "This is an army mule. It can be returned when we get to Camp Axton, which is probably where it was stolen in the first place."
Joe stared at him in astonishment. "You knew this all the time?"
"I know the army brand when I see it," Ellis said.
"Then why in tarnation didn't you tell me!"
Ellis gave him a straight look. "Because I knew you would put the worst possible interpretation on anything I did. I knew if I stole a mule, you'd be ready to blast out at me before I had a chance to explain." He clenched his teeth. "So I didn't feel like hurrying to explain."
Joe was flustered. "Too proud to explain, is that it?" he said. "By not explaining, you hoped to make a fool of me, is that it?"
Ellis ignored the accusation. "The way I figured," he said, "this mule will take us to Axton, and once we're there we stand a better chance to buy a mule than we do out here in the middle of the prairie."
"Very true," said Joe. Ellis and Joe exchanged a long, silent look, in which Ellis accused Joe of judging him too hastily and Joe accused Ellis of making a fool of him by not explaining.
Bobby went to stand at Ellis's side. Her movement was a shock to Joe. It made him question himself. Was he looking for trouble with Ellis, perhaps more than he had any need to?
Joe swallowed his pride. "I been doing too much judging, Ellis," he said. "And I'm sorry."
Ellis grinned. "Forget it," he said. "When I get mad, I get ornery. I got plenty of work to do on my temper."
The black mule was a big, powerful animal and a willing worker. Like all mules, he had his own ideas and regardless of what the driver liked he would put them into effect if an opportunity presented. For the most part he was tractable, though Joe knew enough about mules to know that any of them would kick unexpectedly and he watched himself when hitching or unhitching. In addition, the black fitted in perfectly with the other horse mule. He lacked the horse's rugged character and was willing to follow his lead. He was an ideal replacement for the dead mare.
Nevertheless, Joe worried a great deal about the mule. It belonged to the army, and they must go to Camp Axton to return it. Joe had a hunch the army would take a dim view of anyone found with one of their mules. Likely they'd be able to convince the commandant that they were not themselves mule thieves. The real problem, though, was that the army was always on the lookout for more mules, but didn't sell any.
He confided his worries to Ellis one night after the children were asleep and Barbara and Emma were washing dishes by the fire's leaping light.
"First off," he said, "it's going to take them some time while they investigate us to make sure we're not rustlers. Then it's going to take some more time until someone else comes through that can sell us a mule. And meanwhile the best plowing and planting time is getting away from us every day that we wait."
"They'll sell us an army mule," Ellis said, with the bland optimism of youth.
"Not a chance," said Joe glumly. "Those army men are only interested in one thing—regulations."
"Just the same," said Ellis, "we can explain to them about plowing and planting time. Obviously we can't make a crop if we can't reach our land on time. Even an Army man can understand that."
"Army regulations," said Joe, "do not concern themselves with the planting time of strangers."
Ellis chuckled. "Army men can be human, like anybody else." He smiled softly, because Barbara had just slipped over into the circle of his arm. "I'm for looking on the bright side of things," he insisted.
"Naturally," Joe grinned. He left them and walked over to the wagon. By the fire's light he examined the plow. Joe ran his fingers over the implement, and in his soul felt a vast longing to take it off and use it. A plow meant to him what a rifle meant to Jim Snedeker. It was part of his life, a tool he had been born to use. Joe left the wagon and sat on a block of firewood very close to Emma. Emma's face was upturned to the sky, and she breathed deeply of the fragrant prairie breeze. Joe's hand stole out to hers, and she turned eagerly to him.
"It's like being born again, isn't it?"
"Are you glad we came, darling?"
"Oh, yes I am! Now I am! Lots of times along the way I had regrets. And then, I was cowardly at the beginning."
"Cautious," Joe corrected.
"No,cowardly," insisted Emma. "Afraid to take a chance on anything. We took such a big chance, starting so late, with all the children. But Joe! I wouldn't undo it, not a single moment of it, not even the moments when I was miserable and angry and scared half to death! It's taught me so much about—about what courage can do." She turned to him. "I want to say something from the bottom of my heart, darling. I wouldn't have come if you hadn'tmademe come. And now, Joe, I want to thank you for making me come. Thank you, Joe." Her eyes were swimming. He laughed deep in his chest and blotted up her happy tears tenderly with the corner of her own kerchief.
"You weren't the only one who was scared half to death," he said simply. "I had a lot to learn about courage, too."
She put her head down on his shoulder and he drew her close. They sat, in harmony, watching the dying fire and making plans. Not far away sat Barbara and Ellis, clinging together, making their own plans, thinking ahead to their own home and their own children.
Inside the wagon, baby Emma cried out and they heard her turning restlessly in her sleep. The child cried again, and alarm mounted in Joe. He loosed Emma's hand and turned to listen. Emma spoke softly,
"She's been very fretful since noon, and didn't you notice that she ate very little?"
"No," and somehow Joe felt a great shame because of the admission. "I didn't. Is it the same fever?"
"Not yet, but I'm afraid it will be."
"It always came on in a snap of the fingers before."
"I know. But this is a little different."
They sat silently, the happiness they had known tempered by melancholy. Oregon was a bright, shining promise, a new land where they could build a new life and leave the withered husks of the old one behind. So far it had given something to Barbara, something to Tad, and it would have something for Joe and Emma and the other three children. Of them all, only a wisp of a child must still bear the same cross she had borne in Missouri. Joe shivered. This was a good country but it was also one where violence could reign. He said with a confidence that he did not feel,
"I don't believe it's anything much."
"I hope not!"
But the next morning, when Joe got up and peered behind the curtain, Emma sat with her back braced against the trunk, holding the child in her arms. Baby Emma's cheeks were blazing, her eyes dull and listless. She looked at her father, but the smile that usually flashed across her whole face when she greeted him in the morning was absent now.
Joe turned away from the wagon and built a fire so Barbara could prepare breakfast. A mighty weariness rode his shoulders, and a great despondency. He ate without tasting the breakfast Barbara made, and helped her wash the dishes. Ellis stood helplessly near, without the least idea of what must be done in a situation such as this one. Only a woman's wisdom and tenderness could cope with it. Ellis saddled his horse, glad to be doing something.
"I'll go down the Trail a ways and scout what's ahead."
He looked wistfully at Barbara, but she shook her head. Her mother, busy with a sick child, would have time for nothing else. She must have as much peace as it was possible to find inside the cramped wagon, so Barbara would watch the other three youngsters. Ellis must ride alone today. She watched him ride his horse down the Trail.
Joe harnessed the mules, hitched them, and climbed into the wagon seat. It was lonely, forlorn, because Emma was not beside him. For the first time in days the Trail was a tedious one, utterly lacking in inspiration and joy. Joe drove the mules at a fast walk. Two hours later Ellis rode back up the Trail and reined in beside the wagon.
"The camp's ahead," he called. "I told them you were coming."
"What did they say?"
"We're to see the commander, Major Dismuke."
The camp was built on top of a hill, probably for better defense, and the timber around it had been cleared. Primitive compared to Laramie's splendor, Camp Axton consisted of log buildings and a log stockade. There were a few tents, probably erected by recently arrived troops because the camp itself did not have accommodations for them. But the flag waved proudly and the sentry at the gate was very brisk and military. He stood aside to let them enter.
For a moment, Joe wished mightily that Sergeant Dunbar could be here. Dunbar, who knew the army, would probably know how to cut any red tape that might be involved and certainly he'd know just what to do. But Dunbar wasn't here and Joe had to do the best he could. He drove to a single big pine that had been allowed to stand inside the stockade and brought his team to a halt in its shade. He tied them to an iron ring imbedded in the tree for that purpose, and looked back at Emma. Her face was taut with anxiety.
"She's very warm, Joe. I'll stay with her. Barbara can let the youngsters out to stretch their legs."
"Keep them near the wagon, will you?" Joe addressed his daughter. "We'll be back as soon as possible."
"Yes, Daddy."
Joe turned to confront a trim young sergeant. "Mr. Tower?"
"That's right."
"This way, sir."
He led Joe to one of the log buildings and stood aside to let him enter. With a disarming grin, Ellis entered too. Joe looked at the man who sat behind the desk.
Major Dismuke was perhaps forty-five, and his was the bearing that only a lifetime of soldiering can impart. His hair was short, graying at the temples, and it surmounted a face that seemed chiseled out of solid granite. Cool eyes appraised Joe and Ellis, but never for a second was there any departure from military briskness or any indication that the taut mouth could smile. Major Dismuke was a good and efficient officer but he was also a stern one. He knew all the regulations by heart and he enforced them as they were written.
"Mr. Tower?"
"Yes."
Major Dismuke leaned forward on the desk and rested his chin lightly in his right hand. "You have an army mule in your possession?"
"Guess you're right."
"You guess? Don't you know?"
"We have one."
"Where did you get it?"
"From a couple of trappers."
"Wheredid you get it?"
"Maybe sixty miles down the Trail."
"Describe the trappers."
Briefly Joe described the two men while the officer listened. He looked searchingly at Joe.
"Did you know, when you received this animal, that it was army property?"
"Yes."
"Did you know also that the army isn't selling any mules?"
"I did."
"Therefore you knew that this one was stolen from the army?"
"I had that idea."
"Why did you take the mule?"
Joe's anger flared. "Blast it, man! I lost a mule and had to have another! What did you think we'd do? Sit there?"
"Control your temper, Mr. Tower. If you knew these two men were thieves, why did you not take them into custody?"
"It was none of my business. I'm no law officer."
"Do you have proof that what you've said is true?"
"I have my word, Ellis's here, my wife's, my daughter's, and my oldest son's."
"Do you realize, Mr. Tower, that we shall have to take the mule and detain you until we have investigated?"
"You can have the mule!" Joe roared. "But nobody's detaining us! We're going on as soon as we can get another!"
"I've already advised you to control your temper. Do you have this animal with you?"
"Yes."
"We'll look at it."
He rose and walked past them. Ellis and Joe fell in behind as he strode toward the wagon. Ellis nudged Joe with his elbow. "Joe Tower," he said solemnly, "your explosions of temper are going to get us all into trouble."
Joe turned angrily to him and then, at the quizzical set of the boy's eyebrows, Joe grinned.
"Let me handle this," Ellis pleaded. "You can argue with a human being, but that man is no human being. He's a bundle of army regulations. Let me try, Joe." And then, before Joe could say yes or no, he called out, "There's a sick youngster in that wagon and you're not to bother her or her mother."
Major Dismuke halted. "What's the matter with the child?"
Joe was about to explain when Ellis took over. "It isn't smallpox," he said vehemently. "Don't get the idea that it's smallpox because it isn't!"
Major Dismuke whirled on Joe. "Did you bring a case of smallpox here?"
"I just told you it isn't!" Ellis remained vehement. "But if you're going to detain us we'd like to move her to the hospital, and get quarters for ourselves, until the youngster can travel."
Joe said bewilderedly, "Ellis—"
"I'm just telling him it isn't smallpox," Ellis asserted. "You know that yourself."
For the first time, Major Dismuke was uncertain. As every right-thinking soldier knew, regulations covered every situation connected with the Army. But these were civilians, they might have a case of smallpox with them, and he had no facilities to cope with a possible epidemic. For a long moment he was completely nonplussed. He said finally,
"This is a United States army post, and it exists for the convenience and benefit of United States citizens. It is our duty to offer you such facilities as we afford. On the other hand, if you want to go on, I shall neither detain you nor confiscate the mule. The choice is yours."
"Do you mean to tell me," Ellis demanded righteously, "that you will not offer hospitalization to this sick child?"
Major Dismuke's nervousness became clearly visible. "Gentlemen," he said, "I beg you to take the mule and leave camp."
"Well," said Ellis, with a fine show of reluctance, "of course if you insist...."
"I will be grateful," said the major.
"Well, in that case," said Ellis.
Joe looked from one to the other in honest amazement. Never had he seen a ticklish situation so quickly resolved.
But what about payment? "Look here, Major," he said, "if you'll just tell me how much you want for this—"
"The Army doesn't sell mules," Major Dismuke barked.
"Regulations," said Ellis politely.
The major threw him a sharp look. Then he added some hasty advice.
"It is my duty to advise you that the Indians in this section are restless. If you go on, you risk meeting hostiles."
"We'll still go on," said Ellis.
Major Dismuke halted and when they had drawn away from him Ellis said softly, "Sorry, Joe, but we have to get out of here."
"Yes, we have to get out."
"It wasn't really a lie."
"Ellis, let's face it. It was a lie. But we had to tell it. As soon as we get set, we're sending that mule back."
"All right with me. But let's get set."
The youngsters scrambled back into the wagon. Joe untied the team and climbed up on the wagon seat. He was not happy, for the baby was still feverish, but he was relieved. Emma wouldn't care to stay anywhere near this fort as long as the baby was ill. It was too rough, and the wagon was better. Somehow and somewhere Joe would get another mule and send this one back. He shook his head. Ellis's quick wit in raising the smallpox scare had averted what would have been an intolerable situation.
They stopped for lunch, and drove on. Ellis rode ahead to scout and Joe's sick heart throbbed when the baby babbled in delirium. A few minutes later, Emma spoke softly,
"Joe, we must stop. She's very bad."
He was about to swing the mules to one side of the Trail when Ellis rode back. Ellis swung his horse in beside the wagon and looked up at Joe.
"How is the youngster?"
"Emma says bad. We have to stop."
"There's a good creek about a quarter mile ahead and a meadow only a little ways up the creek. It's a better place than this if we're going to camp."
"Hear that, Emma?" Joe called. "Want to go there?"
She said, "I think it will be better. There'll be no interruptions if we're off the Trail."
The mules plodded down the Trail to the creek. Sparkling, clear and cold, it trickled out of a shallow little gully and flowed across the Trail to lose itself in trees on the other side. The west bank was tree-lined, but tall grass grew on the east bank and laid a soft carpet back to the line of trees. Joe saw trout lingering in a pool.
Ellis swung his horse from the Trail up a grassy embankment. "Follow me," he called. "The wagon can get up here."
The mules walked unhesitatingly after him, and Joe held them to a slow walk in order that the wagon might take gently any hidden obstructions. Tall wild grass brushed the bellies of the mules and of Ellis's horse. A cool and gentle breeze breathed down the creek, and ruffled the slender tops of trees on the west side. The wagon listed a little, and there came the rattle of a falling bucket.
As they proceeded upstream, the meadow widened and the trees on the west bank gave way to grass. Save for one towering pine that grew halfway between the creek and the forest on top of the gently sloping hill, as far as Joe could see there was only meadow land. Three nervous cow elk, probably with calves hidden somewhere back in the forest, edged cautiously out of sight. Joe guided his team to the big pine's shade and stopped. He turned to Emma.
He unhitched and picketed the mules while Tad tied a picket rope to the cow and staked her in tall grass. Used to traveling, and accustomed to grazing different grounds every night, all three animals fell to cropping grass. Though the Oregon Trail was only a few hundred yards to the south, for centuries these meadows had been the haunt of wild things. Probably an occasional horseman had ventured here, but as far as Joe knew theirs was the first wagon that had ever come up the creek. He took a moment to look around, and breathed deeply of the pine-scented air. Jim Snedeker had known what he was talking about when he spoke of nice country.
Ellis swung Emma's crate of poultry to the ground and opened the gate. The rooster jumped to the top of the crate, flapped his wings, and crowed lustily. Four of the hens scurried here and there in the grass, catching bugs and picking up fallen seed. The other two, wings spread, clucked fussily and avoided the rest. Those two were broody and had been for more than a week. Even confinement in the crate and traveling all day was not enough to make them forget age-old instincts. One of them stalked secretively into the grass, searching for a place to nest.
Joe took his snath from the place where it had lain since they left Missouri and fitted a scythe to it. He tested the blade with his thumb, and through the coating of grease that covered it and prevented its rusting he felt its keenness. With a hand full of grass he wiped the scythe clean and went to work.
Strength flowed into his arms, and in spite of the pall that overhung all of them he felt a little song spring into his heart as he mowed the first swath of grass. There had been times when he wondered seriously if the long Trail would not make him forget all he had known about farming, but he fell automatically into the rhythm of what he was doing. The scythe ceased to be a mere tool and became a part of him as grass toppled beneath his attack. He mowed to the big pine, and all around it, then kicked together armfuls of soft grass and arranged it in a pile. Joe covered the bed with a buffalo robe and went to the wagon.
"Bring her out now," he said gently.
Baby Emma lay weak and listless in her mother's arms, lacking either the strength or the will to hold her head erect. But hope sprang anew in Joe's mind and his heart was not quite so leaden. The child smiled at him, and she had not done that earlier. Joe took his wife and daughter to the couch he had made them and watched Emma lay the baby down. He looked again at her flushed cheeks and dull eyes, and wished mightily that he knew as much about sick babies as he did about driving mules.
Emma said, "May we have some fresh water, Joe?"
Barbara called, "I'll get it."
She had lifted the other three youngsters from the wagon and they were tumbling around in the grass. Joe watched them closely; he had never been here before and he did not know what to expect in such a place. Then the children found the place he had mowed and played there. Joe relaxed. He had just covered that ground himself, and knew there was nothing harmful on it. The youngsters showed no inclination to go elsewhere. The tall grass was as high as their heads and they became entangled in it. This was more to their liking.
Tad exclaimed, "Look yonder!"
Joe followed his pointing hand. On the far side of the creek a buck deer, his head heavy with grotesque clubs of velvet-covered antlers, was gazing at them. The buck stretched its neck toward them, then stamped its forefeet and flicked a short tail. Tad looked hopefully at Joe.
"We need meat, don't we?"
Joe shook his head. "Not that much meat. We'll be going on in a couple of days and we can't waste time curing what we don't use."
"Shucks!" Tad said dejectedly.
"But I'll tell you what you can do," Joe said. "I saw trout in the creek. Suppose you take a hook and line, cut yourself a pole, and see what you can do about bringing in a mess for supper."
"You betcha!"
Mike at his heels, rifle in his hands, Tad went whooping toward the creek and Joe watched him go. Joe turned back to the tasks at hand, for there was much to be done. But even as he worked he had a curious feeling that this was no routine halt.
They had had many different camps under many different conditions, and some were so ordinary that Joe could not remember them at all. Others, such as the one where they'd eaten their first buffalo and the camp where they had forded the creek after he replaced the broken wagon wheel, he remembered clearly. But this one had something that was all its own. Joe tried to pin down the elusive quality it possessed and could not. Perhaps, he thought, it was partly his determination to make it the best and most comfortable stopping place they had yet known. He had a hazy idea that, if he could do everything right and work everything right, baby Emma's fever would depart.
He worked furiously with the scythe, cutting more grass and letting it wither in what remained of the afternoon sun. He carried stones from the creek and arranged a fireplace while Ellis cut wood in the fireplace. Tad came in with four big trout dangling at the end of a willow stringer.
"Threw back all the little ones!" he boasted. "Caught 'em on worms that I found under rocks! Do we need any more, Pa?"
"These will do," Joe declared. "Let me have them and I'll take the bones out."
"I can do it myself. I watched you with the bass."
He sat down to fillet his catch and Joe raked up the partially dried grass. He arranged a bed, turning all the stems downward so that only wispy grass lay on top. This he covered with buffalo robes, and built a small fireplace near it. Joe and Ellis made beds for the other youngsters, but Ellis declared that he could sleep on the ground and Joe threw down only a couple of armfuls of grass for himself. He built a cooking fire and a small fire near where Emma and her sick daughter were to spend the night.
They feasted on broiled trout and fresh bread, and Joe watched with hope in his heart while baby Emma sipped at a bowl of warm milk. Her fever seemed to have lessened, but Joe worried because it was not following its usual pattern. Always before it had struck suddenly, burned its course, and left just as suddenly. This time the child was very ill, with a fluctuating temperature.
The darkness deepened. Joe lay on his bed near Emma and the youngster, watching stars so near that it almost seemed he could touch them. Out in the forest wolves yelled, and there were soft shufflings and gruntings as the things that ordinarily used these meadows by day—but no longer dared do so because there were humans near—moved about at night. Mike growled a warning whenever anything came nearer than he thought it should, and three times during the night Joe rose to visit the couch of his wife and daughter. On one of these visits he saw that his wife's eyes were open, and he heard her whisper. He bent close to hear her message.
"When we're settled and have a roof over our head, Joe—"
He waited.
She added softly, "I'm going to miss the open sky and the stars."
Morning brought mists that swirled upward from the creek and spread like gossamer spirits over the meadow on both sides. The mules and the placid cow were half hidden by it, and the air had a distinct chill. Joe rose to throw more wood on the fire, and when he walked over to see if Emma was awake he found her staring at him.
"How is the baby?" he whispered.
"She had a difficult night," Emma said softly, "but she's sleeping now. Joe, I'm—"
"Yes?" he asked.
"I'm afraid she won't be able to travel for a while."
Joe looked toward the other side of the creek. The three cow elk, sure that the night was a cloak of safety, were grazing unconcernedly. Joe looked at the tall grass that could have grown only in fertile soil. He thought of last evening. Barbara and Ellis had gone wading in the creek. Barbara's legs, bare to the knee, had flashed in the setting sun, and through the clear water small stones that either were white or appeared to be white due to some trick of the water's reflection were plainly seen on the bottom of the creek.
Out in the meadow, a meadow lark piped its greeting to the rising sun. The lark was Joe's totem bird and always a symbol of good luck.
He said with sudden decision, "She won't have to travel. This is the place we came so far to find."