Joe and Tad, jackets buttoned and wool caps pulled down over their ears, were gathering buffalo chips for fuel. For the first part of their journey, wood had been theirs for the taking. But for the past ten days there had been very little, and Joe supposed that this was partly because there never had been very much in the first place and partly because emigrants preceding him had cut down what there was. Joe tried to put this vast prairie in a proper perspective.

The change in terrain had been gradual. No one day, or even the whole trip so far, had revealed any startling differences. The hills in Missouri were low and rolling and so was this country. But the Missouri hills had been forested, and with very few exceptions the only trees they'd found here had been growing along river or creek bottoms. Yet, each day had brought its own changes. But Joe had to think of the whole trip, and get the over-all picture, to place them correctly. When one traveled only twenty or thirty miles, each night's camp seemed much like the one preceding it. But each had differed, and much more startling than any physical change in the country they'd traveled was the sense of going a great distance.

Tenney's Crossing had been warm and friendly, with neighbors always at hand, and not until they reached Independence had they in any sense of the word felt alien. Going out of Independence, they'd passed homesteads and settlements and felt at home there. But here there was only the prairie, a vast thing that stretched on all sides. They were all alone, wholly dependent on their own resources, and with no one else to whom they might turn. It was, Joe felt, much like being suspended in space. He didn't like the country and he was more than a little afraid of it. But he hadn't mentioned his fears to Emma.

Buffalo chips in both hands, Tad put them in the sack Joe was carrying. Joe glanced at him but made no comment. Tad seemed to be looking for something, and sooner or later he would mention whatever he sought.

"How come?" he said finally. "How come, Pa?"

"How come what?"

"All this dry buffalo manure around and no buffalo."

"I don't know that myself," Joe admitted.

"We've come a right smart ways without seein' any, ain't we?"

"We sure have."

"Wouldn't you like to see some?"

"Yup."

"So would I. Do you think we'll get all the way to Oregon without findin' any?"

"I don't know."

"How far are we from Oregon?"

"A long ways. Now if you'll stop asking questions, and start gathering buffalo chips, we might get enough."

"Sure, Pa."

Mike, who had adapted himself to wagon life, sniffed eagerly at a bunch of grass in which a jack rabbit had rested. Mike had had a wonderful time stalking rabbits and prairie chickens, though he hadn't caught anything as yet, and Joe looked worriedly at the dog.

Perhaps Jake Favors had been doing something besides trying to hire a man who knew mules when he advised them to winter in Independence, for the Trail had been anything except easy. It was easy to stay on, of course, for all one had to do was follow the Platte River and the tracks of the wagons that had gone before. Or, at least, stay near the Platte. There must have been a great many emigrants this past season, for the grass was cropped short by their animals and in some places it hadn't grown back. In all such places—the mules had to eat well if they were to work hard—it had been necessary to swerve to one side and find grazing. It wasn't always easy because others had the same idea and that, Joe knew now, was one of the reasons why the Oregon Trail was several miles wide in some places.

However, though sometimes grass was hard to find, it could always be found and that was a minor problem. A major one was that they were far behind the schedule Joe had hoped to keep. It was just short of 700 miles between Independence and Laramie, and Joe had counted on making the trip in thirty-five days at the very most. However, they were already out thirty-two days and certainly they had a long way to go. Joe didn't know just how far, for his calculations had been completely upset.

Even for the first two weeks out of Laramie, Joe had not been able to cover his hoped-for thirty miles a day. They'd been delayed by the necessity of finding grass for the stock. Then had come near disaster.

Joe had awakened one morning and turned over for another few minutes' sleep, for by the look of things it couldn't possibly be time to get up. The morning was almost as black as the night had been. Then Joe came awake with a start. As soon as he did so he knew that it was past the time for getting up and that they were facing a storm.

Heavy, black clouds covered the sky so deeply that the sun could find no crack to break through. Emma had come from the wagon to join Joe and for a few seconds they had stood near each other while each gave comfort to the other. They shared a weird and terrible feeling that they were really lost on the endless prairie whose ceiling was now an even more fierce plain of clouds. Then they hurriedly started a fire and cooked breakfast before the forthcoming rain made it impossible to do so.

They'd scarcely started when lightning flashed and thunder boomed in a wild and awful way. All about was space, with no sheltering trees or hills, and thunder filled that space. The clouds opened up and cold rain sluiced down. Joe was grateful for the double thickness of canvas on the wagon. Except for Tad, who still refused to ride, his family would be dry. A wetting wouldn't hurt Tad as long as he kept moving, and if Joe had to put him there by main strength he would sleep in the wagon at night. But heavy rain turned the Trail into a quagmire.

From that moment, the movement of the wagon had become slow and torturing. Wheels sank halfway to the hubs. The mules strained and slipped as they sought a solid footing, and only Joe's expert driving kept them on their feet. They had to go on because it was unthinkable to stop in this morass. There was no house, and as far as Joe could see, no material for building one. For two days following the rain they had to nibble at cold food because the soaked buffalo chips, the only fuel, would not burn. Their clothing and almost everything inside the wagon was mud-crusted and there was small use in cleaning anything because five minutes afterward it was sure to be muddy again. The cold wind following the rain was within itself evidence that this was bitter country where snow would lie deep.

Worst of all, their provisions were running low. Grandpa Seeley had advised him to load the wagon heavily with food, and Joe had followed the advice. Before leaving Independence he had bought more, but his family had always had hearty appetites and travel stimulated them. Joe had shot a few jack rabbits, which even Mike found difficult to chew, and a few prairie chickens which were delicious. But, though jack rabbits were numerous, everybody else who came this way must have been shooting prairie chickens, too. They were so wary that it was almost impossible to get a shot at one now.

Joe continued to pick up buffalo chips the while he continued to worry. They were so slowed by the mud that sometimes it seemed that they camped one night almost in sight of last night's camp. Probably they traveled farther than that, though Joe estimated that they hadn't covered more than eight miles any day they'd been in the mud. He'd been able to buy almost nothing at Fort Kearney; their commissary was low and the men there were already on short rations. They'd told him he had enough to last to Laramie, but they hadn't known about bad travel conditions.

They filled the sack with buffalo chips, bent their heads against the cold north wind, and Joe quenched a rising uneasiness. Probably there would be no very deep snow for several weeks. But any snow at all would be sure to slow them up and they could afford no more delays. The thought of his children going hungry clutched at him with an almost physical pain. It was by no means certain that anyone else would come this way before spring again made for good travel conditions, and even if somebody did come the chances were good that they'd have nothing to spare. Tad spoke from the muffled depths of his jacket collar.

"Think it will snow, Pa?"

"No. I don't think so."

He had halted the wagon on a grassy knoll that offered good drainage and at least they'd be out of the mud tonight. The tethered mules and the cow were eagerly cropping grass. Emma's chickens, that had come to regard the wagon as their real home, were scratching vigorously in the dirt. With night, they would go into their crate to roost. Emma and Barbara, who had refashioned two of Joe's old pairs of trousers to fit them—articles of clothing neither would have dreamed of wearing near Tenney's Crossing but which were practical here—were arranging their cook ware. They awaited only the buffalo chips.

"Here we are!" Joe sang out.

He plucked a handful of dry grass for tinder, arranged his fire, and lighted it with a sulphur match that he took from a corked bottle. The flames climbed hungrily through the grass and ate more slowly into the chips. Joe remembered the roaring wood fires they'd had back in Missouri, and he stirred uncomfortably. It was necessary to cross these plains before they could go to Oregon, and there was nothing anyone could do about them except cross. But Joe was just as happy that they were not going to live here. Grandpa Seeley had known what he was talking about when he spoke of the plains' vast loneliness.

Emma looked wistfully at the fire. "I kind of miss a wood fire."

"We'll get some," Joe promised. "There must be wood somewhere, and the mud can't last forever. Soon as we get out of it we can travel a lot faster. Don't you worry."

Emma laughed, and Joe knew that it was a forced laugh. "I'm not a bit worried! I didn't expect luxuries all the way."

Tad, who had slipped away, darted back to the wagon. His eyes were big with excitement.

"Hey, Pa!"

"Yes?"

"There's some animals just over the next knoll!"

Joe's heart leaped. "What are they?"

"I dunno. They look sort of like deer, but they ain't deer."

Joe got his rifle and turned to Emma. "You and Bobby feed the youngsters and have your own supper, will you? Expect Tad and me when we get back." To Tad he said, "Show me where they are!"

Tad tied Mike to the wagon wheel and led the way up the knoll. He slipped down the other side, and Joe noted with pride that he walked carefully. He avoided rustling grass and stones, anything at all that might make a noise. Joe reflected that, one day, Tad would be a wonderful hunter. Tad crawled up the opposite knoll as carefully as he had descended the first and stopped. He pointed.

"They're just on the other side," he whispered. "There's four of 'em."

"Come on, son."

They dropped to their hands and knees and crawled very slowly. Nearing the crest of the knoll, they wriggled on their bellies. With only their heads showing, they looked down the other side of the knoll. Tad whispered,

"There they are!"

The knoll sloped into a shallow gulley that was about three hundred yards long by two hundred wide. Joe saw the animals, a big buck with three does, and though he himself had never before seen any, he knew from the descriptions of people who had been west that they were pronghorns, or antelope. His practiced hunter's eye told him that they were already suspicious; they had either seen Tad or else they had seen Joe and Tad. They were grazing nervously near the far end of the gully, hopelessly out of range.

"They were a lot closer before," Tad whispered.

"Sh-h! Maybe they'll come nearer!"

Joe lay perfectly still, trying desperately not even to wink an eye as he watched the antelope. By sheer force of will he yearned to draw them closer. One of them, just one, and his family would have enough food again. One of the does slashed at another with an angry hoof, and they drifted a little farther away. Joe began to worry. In another twenty minutes it would be too dark to shoot. He whispered,

"We have to do something!"

"Yes?"

"Do you know right where they are, Tad?"

"Sure."

"Can you slip down this knoll, see if you can work around behind 'em, and scare 'em toward me?"

"Sure, Pa."

Tad slipped away and Joe concentrated his fierce, yearning gaze on the antelope. He must not miss. They had to have one of the antelope, and the thought made him tense. Joe forced himself to relax so that he would be able to shoot more truly. Minute by minute, the night shadows lowered. The rifle's sights were already beginning to blur when the antelope moved.

They sprang away suddenly, but instead of running toward Joe, they quartered across the gully. Knowing that they were still out of range, but wanting desperately to get one, Joe aimed at the running buck. He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle belched red flame into the gathering twilight. But the antelope continued to run.

Joe stood up, sweating, and it was as though a heavy weight was suddenly upon his heart. He felt a little nauseated, and he wet dry lips with his tongue. It seemed, somehow, that he was guilty of a terrible and unforgivable sin. But even while he berated himself, Joe knew pride when Tad appeared where he should have been. The youngster had done his part exactly right. It was no fault of his if the antelope had run exactly wrong.

Tad panted up the knoll to join him. "Missed, huh?"

Joe said glumly, "I missed."

"Oh well," Tad remained cheerful, "they weren't very big anyhow."

They wandered back to the wagon. Emma, who had heard the shot, came running expectantly toward them.

"Missed," Joe said, and he took refuge in Tad's alibi. "They weren't very big anyhow."

"It's nothing," she said, and Joe thought he detected a catch in her voice. "There'll be other opportunities. You come and have your suppers now."

She had kept their plates warm near the dying fire, and she gave Tad one. The youngster stood up to eat while Emma brought Joe's plate. He looked down at it, potatoes, biscuits, butter, jerked beef that they had bought in Independence, and a cup of coffee. They were his usual full rations, and he said,

"Doggone, I just don't feel hungry. If you'll put this away, it'll be all the lunch I want tomorrow."

Tad said, "I ain't hungry neither, Mom."

"Now see here!" Emma's voice rose and there was a convulsive sob in it. "Barbara wasn't hungry, Tad isn't hungry, you aren't hungry—! What's the matter with all of you! You've got to eat—you've got to!"

Carefully, Joe put the plate and the cup of coffee on the ground. He caught her in his arms and held her very close to him, and she leaned against him, tense and trembling, without making a sound. His arms tightened about her, and he whispered so even Tad couldn't hear,

"My darling! Oh my darling!"

"I—I'm sorry, Joe."

"Emma," his voice was firm, "I know it's hard. But we'll get out, and I swear that to you by everything that's holy to me!"

Her eyes seemed like live coals as she looked at him.

Miserably Joe said, "Tad, you eat. If you're going to scout up more game you'll have to."

Barbara, who had been putting the younger children to bed, jumped from the wagon to stand comfortingly near her mother. Joe said gently,

"Your mother and I have some things to talk over, honey."

She said uncertainly, "All right."

Joe said, "By the way, you take your meals too, Bobby."

"I really wasn't hungry."

"You'd best take 'em anyhow."

He picked up the plate of food and the cup of coffee and led Emma into the shadows away from the fire. Gently he turned to face her.

"How much did you eat?"

"I—I wasn't hungry."

He cut a slice of meat and used the fork to try to put it into her mouth. Her self-control went, and she broke into deep, painful sobbing. "Why did you bring us to this terrible place?" she choked out. "What right did you have to take us away from our home? You—a father—to bring six children out here into this mud—four helpless little ones—this—this horrible wilderness!" The words were torn from her, her whole body shook with the violence of her feelings. "You were willing to take a chance, weren't you? But how about us! What if we starve to death out here! How will you feel when there is nothing to eat—nothing for the babies, nothing for any of us? Joe, Joe, what have you done to us!"

Now the sobs racked her so that she could speak no more.

Joe had placed the cup and plate on the ground, and now he stood silent, alone, his head hanging low. He made no move to touch her. Under her lashing all his courage had fled. He did not know his own mind. Likely he was all wrong to have come out here. He was lost, and his family was lost with him.

She dashed the tears furiously out of her eyes, and then suddenly she saw him. As though she had been blind before, seeing only the children, their hunger, now she opened her eyes and saw Joe. She saw what her attack was doing to him. Helplessly, she looked at his stooped shoulders, at his hands hanging lifeless. A knife of pain turned in her chest. Everything that Joe had done, he had done for all of them. The trip was to bring all of them to a new and better place. If Joe had more hankering than other men had for an independent life, didn't that make him a better father too, a man for the children to look up to? Why, she was attacking the very courage that made Joe Tower the fine man that he was, the fine father, the brave and loving husband.

Her fears did not disappear, but something bigger and more important than fear flowed into her. Her sobs stopped. She went to Joe and put her arms around his neck.

"I've been going on like a loon, Joe," she said.

He raised his face, and looked at her, bewildered.

"Seems as though sometimes I get an overdose of feeling, and an underdose of sense." She laughed shakily. "We're going to a better life, Joe, and no matter what I say, I know that from the bottom of my heart. No matter what we have to go through on the way—we'll look back at this, my darling, and have a good laugh over it, some day!"

An enormous relief came to his face. His shoulders straightened, and he took her in his arms. "You do trust me, Emma?" he asked, huskily.

For answer, she kissed him on the lips. The kiss told him everything he needed to know.

He took up the plate of food, divided the food exactly in half and, dutifully, he and Emma finished every morsel. They each drank exactly half of the coffee, smiling tremulously at each other over the rim of the cup.

They returned to the children then.

Joe brought a bucket of water and a handful of sand from the Platte, and they scrubbed their dishes clean. Back in the wagon, Joe let the drop curtain fall, removed his mud-stained outer garments, and lay with his sons curled close on one side of the curtain while Emma joined her daughters on the other. It was the best arrangement now; the fire offered little comfort and there was no point in just standing around outside. Joe looked to his rifle, and made sure that it was within easy reach of his hand. They had seen few Indians so far and all of them had been peaceful. But they might run into hostiles.

Underneath the wagon, Mike moaned fretfully in his sleep as he dreamed of some happy hunt in which he and Tad had participated. Joe felt a little easier. The dog ate his share of food and so far he had been unable to get any for himself. But he was courageous, and almost certainly he would give the alarm if anything tried to approach them in the night. Joe pulled the quilts up around his chin and settled into the warm bed.

"There was a little wagon going to Oregon," he began.

On both sides of the curtain little pairs of ears were attentive, and eyes stared expectantly into the darkness of the wagon. Joe continued his story.

By sheer coincidence the little wagon in the story had the same number of children in it that this wagon carried. But the mules were stubborn and would not pull. Even a carrot dangled in front of their noses would not make them move. They wanted to go back to Missouri. Finally the children in the little wagon had a happy inspiration. They stood where the mules could hear them—these mules could understand children talk—and had a great argument. They wanted to go back to Missouri too. But the mules did not know the right way. Calling good bye to the mules, and assuring them that they were going to Missouri, the children started walking toward Oregon. The mules looked at each other, decided they'd been wrong, and followed the children all the way. When they got there, they liked Oregon so well that they no longer wanted to go anywhere.

On the other side of the curtain little Emma said sleepily, "That was a nice story, Daddy."

Little Joe yawned prodigiously and Alfred and Carlyle snuggled a bit closer to their father. Tad whispered,

"Pa."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry we didn't get us an antelope."

"So am I."

"But we'll get one, huh?"

"Sure we will. Don't talk any more now. The kids are going to sleep."

"All right, Pa."

Joe tried to sense whether, on the other side of the curtain, Emma still lay awake. He had a feeling that she did, but he did not want to whisper to her and risk awakening her if she was asleep. He stared at the blackness over him.

Grandpa Seeley had told him as much as any man could tell another about going to Oregon. But no man could really know unless he tried the journey himself; how could Grandpa Seeley have forecast the rain and the sea of mud? Joe stirred uneasily. He had, in a very real sense, appointed himself the guardian of seven lives and he knew very well that those lives were now in danger. Their supplies were dangerously low and it was still an undetermined distance to Laramie. In that moment Joe wished mightily that they had never come, and he knew that, if he could, he would turn back. Now they might better go on. Laramie was certainly closer than Independence or Kearney and there was nothing for Joe at Kearney. The die was cast. They had made their choice.

The curtain rustled and Emma's hand came through, searching in the dark for her husband. Tenderly, Joe took the proffered hand, and she whispered,

"Joe, it will be all right."

He whispered back, "Yes, darling."

There was silence while their hands remained clasped. Joe thought, with anguish, of all his wife had endured. No part of it had been easy for her, but nothing else was as bad as the mud. It clung to everything, found its way into every part of the wagon, and even into the food. Normally a tidy housewife, the unconquerable mud revolted Emma's very soul.

Expressing a hope that was nothing more than a hope, he whispered with an effort at certainty, "Things are going to get better soon, Emma."

For answer there was only the comforting pressure of her hand.

Wind rustled the canvas cover, and Joe still stared into darkness. They were only on the first lap of their journey, with a very long way to go. Certainly, before they ever reached Oregon, there would be more hardship and danger. Joe's hand still in hers, Emma fell asleep.

In the middle of the next morning, the laboring mules finally pulled the wagon onto dry ground. Joe heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, and the mules bobbed happy heads up and down and trotted. Emma turned gleeful, excited eyes on her husband. Back in the wagon, for the first time in a week, Alfred voiced childish glee.

"Is this Oregon?" he asked.

"Not quite, Ally." Joe felt like laughing.

"Let's have us a game," little Joe urged.

Just before they entered the mud, Carlyle had discovered a bed of small round pebbles. They were some sort of quartz, Joe didn't know just what because he had never seen them before, and when held to the light they were translucent. The youngsters had devised a fascinating game wherein, unseen by the rest, one hid a few pebbles. Then all the rest had to guess how many there were, and the one who came nearest held the pebbles next time.

Alfred asked, "How many stones I got?"

"Six," baby Emma guessed.

"Four," little Joe said soberly.

"Five," Carlyle hazarded.

"Nope." Alfred was shaking with suppressed mirth.

"How many do you have?" Barbara asked.

"Not any!"

Alfred burst into laughter and little Joe protested seriously, "That is not the way to play this game!"

Emma looked brightly at Joe and he smiled back. They were still a lost dot on a vast prairie and their situation had not changed materially from last night's. But they were out of the mud. They had met and defeated a slimy, vicious enemy that had done its best to drag them down, and their spirits lifted accordingly.

Emma breathed, "This is wonderful!"

"Like riding on feathers," Joe agreed and he called back to his daughter, "How do you like this, Bobby?"

"Oh, it's grand!" Her voice was gay, but there was a strange undertone in it that Joe could not understand. He looked quizzically at Emma. She lowered her voice.

"Barbara isn't really in the wagon, Joe. She's gone to Oregon ahead of us."

"Oh," he said, only half understanding.

She said softly, "Our little girl has grown up, Joe. But she isn't so grown-up that she can't dream, and I hope she never will be. What were you thinking of when you were her age?"

"You," he said promptly.

She became a little coy. "You hadn't even met me!"

"Just the same I was thinking about you. Doggone it, Emma, I didn't have a very good life before I met you. Oh, I don't mean it that way at all. I had everything most other people did, but it just seemed that I was lost. There was nobody at all I could tell things to, or share with, and the first day I saw you I knew I could never leave."

She said, "Oh, but you did leave, running out of that store like a streak, with the maple syrup jug in your hand!"

They laughed heartily, for the sheer joy of laughing, and back in the wagon the children laughed too. But they had not kept their voices low enough. Barbara had heard, and she knelt staring dreamily out of the open flaps. All behind her was forever behind, and she knew that. What—and who—would lie ahead? Emma, who knew her daughter, was right. Barbara's spirit had winged past the slow-moving mules and taken her to Oregon long before the rest would ever get there.

Despite the mud, Tad had not forsworn his announced intention of walking every inch of the way to Oregon. He hadn't had a bad time because of his weight; places where the wagon bogged down, he could skip over. Where the Trail was too muddy, Tad sought the knolls and rises on one side or the other and often these were short cuts. Now, the faithful Mike close beside him, he was waving from a knoll about a hundred yards ahead and his voice carried back.

"Hey, Pa!"

"Yes?"

"Come on! Look!"

"I'm coming! Hang on to your shirt!"

He drove to the foot of the knoll, looked in the direction Tad indicated, and knit his brows in wonder. Three hundred yards farther on, almost squarely in the center of the Trail, was another wagon. It was oddly still and only half real, a ghost that haunted the Trail. Its once taut canvas cover sagged, and the back flaps gaped emptily. Emma turned puzzled eyes on Joe.

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't know. Let's drive down and see."

As he drew nearer he knew that, though doubtless this wagon had once had a driver, it contained no people at all now. Tad, racing toward it, stopped uncertainly and waited while Mike bristled beside him. The youngster had been halted by sight of the oxen that had once drawn this wagon, but that now lay dead in their yokes. Joe stopped the mules, handed the reins to Emma, and walked slowly toward the wagon. His courage restored by his father's presence, Tad kept pace with him. Joe looked at the oxen, dead too long to have any hope of discovering what had killed them. He swung up to look into the wagon and, as he had expected, found it empty.

"What do you think happened?" Tad asked in awed tones.

"I don't know."

"Indians?"

"Could be."

"Shucks!"

"What's the matter?"

"Why couldn't they have waited until we came along?"

"Don't talk foolish!" Joe ordered sternly. "Besides, if it was Indians, they'd have taken the wagon too."

"Unless," Tad pointed out, "they were driven away by people shooting from other wagons."

"That could be too, and maybe some fool driver just drove his oxen to death. Anyhow, we'd better be moving."

"My guess is sick or poisoned oxen," he explained to Emma when he got back on the seat and took the reins. "There aren't any bullet holes in the wagon cover."

"Oh, I do hope that whoever was in there is all right!"

"They probably are," Joe reassured her. "Probably picked up by another wagon."

They drove on, sobered by this evidence of certain accident, and possible tragedy, along the Oregon Trail. The hard trail continued; rain country was definitely behind. But a cold north wind still blew and Joe urged on the mules. There was no summer weather behind that wind and he had no desire to be caught out here when snow fell. For a moment they rode in silence, and it seemed that there was something alien among them. Even the children were still, and Emma turned to Joe, vaguely puzzled.

"Do you hear anything?"

"By gosh, I thought I did."

"I too."

There was a distant, muted throbbing that came to them in discordant tempo, like a wind that blows in blasts instead of with steady force. But the wind around the wagon was still steady and still from the north. Joe twisted uneasily on the wagon seat, for it seemed to him that there was much he should know about this that he did not know. He had a sense of danger, which was silly, for no danger threatened. The mules bobbed uneasy heads.

"Hey, Pa!"

Tad's voice was desperate and wild. Running hard, the youngster appeared on a near-by knoll. Joe stopped the team and waited, while fear's cold fingers caressed his spine. Tad's jacket was open, his face sweat-streaked, and he had run so far and so fast that he gasped for breath.

"My gosh!" he yelled. "Must be a million of 'em!"

"A million what?"

"Buffalo!" Tad gasped. "And they're headin' this way!"

"Get in quick!"

"How about Mike?"

Joe leaped from the wagon, cradled the dog in his arms, handed him up to Emma, and helped his exhausted son. He cracked the bull whip over both mules and gave them free rein.

"Hi-eee! Get up there!"

The mules sprang forward, jerking their traces tight, and the whip cracked over them again. They broke into a wild gallop while the wagon jolted over some unseen obstacle. Joe braced his feet and shouted to Emma,

"Get in back!"

She slid over the seat into the wagon box, and crouched down, drawing the children close to her while Joe cracked his whip again. He breathed a silent prayer as he did so. Though he knew nothing about buffalo stampedes, he had seen cattle run wild. Surely this must be worse.

Then the mules needed no whipping, for the first of the buffalo were in sight. Up a knoll they surged, and down the other side. Tightly packed, those in front could not have turned if they would, for those in back forced them on. A flowing, brown sea of beasts, the noise of their hoofs drowned all other noises and the very earth seemed to shake.

The mules were racing for their lives now, and they knew it. Curbing them not at all and letting them choose their own course, Joe risked one sidewise glance at the stampeding herd. There were a vast number of buffalo, Joe could not even guess how many, and they were going to cross the Oregon Trail. Above the thunder of their hoofs Joe heard Tad's scream,

"Pa!"

"What?" Joe roared back.

"Can I use the rifle?"

"Yes!"

Some great and terrible thing, some mighty force, bumped the wagon and sent it slewing sidewise. Joe slanted the reins forward, as though by so doing he might give the mules more speed, and willed wings onto their hoofs. He heard the rifle's spiteful crack. Then the mules slowed of their own accord and he knew they were safe, but by a very narrow margin. The wagon had actually been bumped by one of the running buffalo. Joe drew the panting mules to a halt and looked back to see the great herd still running.

"Got one!" Tad gloated. "Got one and there it lays!"

"You were a long time shooting," Joe complained.

"Shucks, didn't want to shoot one out of the middle. The rest would have pounded it to bits. I wanted to get one of the rear-most so we'd have somethin' to eat."

Joe turned to look at his son with surprise and admiration. "That was right good thinking!"

Pale and shaken, Emma took her place on the seat beside Joe. Barbara wiped her face with a handkerchief. Too young to appreciate the danger they had avoided, the younger children stood with open mouths, staring at the fleeing buffalo. Joe squeezed Emma's hand.

"What on earth could have brought that on?" she gasped.

"I don't know. Maybe hunters started the herd and it just didn't stop."

"How terribly close!"

"Too close!"

Tad asked eagerly, "Can I take the rifle and go see my buffalo, Pa?"

"Go ahead."

He watched closely while Tad climbed out of the wagon and Mike leaped after him. Before leaving the wagon's shelter, Tad reloaded the rifle and Joe nodded approvingly. Tad was no fool. The buffalo was down, but nobody had proved that it could not get up and Tad wanted to be ready if it did. Joe continued to watch, not joining Tad because this rightly belonged to him. It was a prize worthy of note, and because he himself had brought it down, it would help shape Tad's manhood if nobody else interfered. Joe gave the youngster time to reach and admire his game, then swung the mules to follow.

Barbara shuddered, but braced herself. "Can I help you with it, Daddy?"

Joe said gently, "I don't think so, Bobby."

"Then I'll take the youngsters for a walk. It will keep them out of mischief."

"Wanna see the buffalo!" Alfred protested.

Emma said, "Ally, you go with Barbara."

Joe stopped to let Barbara take the younger children and drove on. The buffalo was a fat cow with a big hump, and Joe thought curiously that he had never really known before how large buffalo can be. He looked at Emma's happy eyes, and knew what she was thinking. The Tower family still had problems, but short rations was no longer one of them.

Tad asked, puzzled, "What are we going to do with it, Pa?"

"Guess we'll have to butcher it like we would a beef."

He hadn't any pulleys to hoist the enormous carcass into a tree, and there weren't any trees to hoist it into. Joe bled the animal. Unhitching the mules, he used them to turn the carcass over on its back. Tad had shot better than he knew, for the buffalo was a barren cow and that was always the best eating. Joe began at one haunch, Tad at the other, and they skinned the dead beast. The freed skin was dropped on both sides, so that no dirt would cling to the sticky, warm carcass. Emma brought her carving boards and containers from the wagon.

Joe scratched his head, at a loss as to just what they should take and what they should leave. Somewhere he had heard that the hump was the best part of any buffalo, and certainly they'd want the liver. The rest of the meat would have to cool and season before it would be fit for use, but the liver they could eat tonight. However, before they could do anything about the hump, the carcass would have to be made lighter.

Expertly Joe sliced around one of the haunches, and he was surprised when he lifted it quite easily. It weighed, he estimated, no more than a hundred pounds. Maybe buffalo looked bigger than they were. Joe laid the haunch on a carving board and Emma stood ready with her knife.

"You finish what you're doing," she told him. "I'll take care of this."

She began slicing the haunch into steaks. Joe and Tad separated the other haunch, and opened the belly cavity to get the liver. Of the front quarters they took only the choicest parts, and Joe used his saw to cut out the loin. He rolled the lightened carcass over on its side and sliced experimentally at the hump. He was surprised to find a ridge of bone there, and he stood to look down on it. Joe tried again, and failed, to remove the hump. He shrugged. Evidently, whoever had said that the hump was a choice part of any buffalo, didn't know what they were talking about.

Joe, Emma and Tad worked with the meat, throwing away all tissue and bone and keeping only what was edible. Because they were working under adverse conditions, and without all the tools they needed, it took them longer than it would have taken to prepare a steer's carcass. But when they were finished, every meat box was filled and there was still much of the buffalo left.

That night, the first in many, they camped among trees and had wood for their fire. Joe ate what seemed to be a vast quantity of buffalo liver, took a second helping, and was ashamed of himself. But Tad had four helpings and Emma and Barbara each had two. It was good eating, but there seemed to be in it a certain quality that enabled one to eat large quantities and still want more. Joe said happily,

"Have some more, Joey? There's plenty."

"I might try another little piece."

Little Emma said, "I'm stuffed," and Alfred and Carlyle shook their heads. They sat around the festive board, completely relaxed and happy. Last night, after the crushing disappointment of missing the antelope and knowing they had more mud to face, near despair had reigned. Tonight they were on hard ground, with a wood fire, and there was more than plenty for everyone. They would get through.

The next day the sun shone, and the day after that. But a cold wind still blew in from the north and there was a promise of things to come. It was a sinister promise, freighted with bitter and cold meanings, and Joe hurried the mules as much as he could. He gave thanks because the Trail remained dry and they could make good time. When he came to the river he stopped for a few minutes.

It was a willow-bordered, slow-moving river that emptied into the Platte, and it seemed a gentle thing. The tired mules halted in their traces and Joe got down from the wagon seat. Mike and Tad beside him, he walked back and forth on the bank of the river and tried to find an answer to the riddle which he felt must exist here. The Trail went into the river and out the other side; other wagons had forded it. But there still seemed to be a question, and Joe was puzzled because he could see no reason to question. He could not see the bottom of the river, but it was muddy. How many other muddy rivers and creeks had he forded?

"Reckon we can make it?" he asked Tad.

"Other wagons made it."

"Well, we can too."

He climbed back onto the seat and picked up the reins. The mules stepped forward, then suddenly sidewise. Joe's heart missed a beat and he let them go, for now he saw why he had had an instinctive fear of this river.

When the other wagons crossed, it must have been low, perhaps little more than a trickle. But, doubtless due to upcountry rains, now it was in flood and had undercut its banks. Where other wagons had found a safe ford, he found only a treacherous shell of dirt. The wagon lurched sickeningly, threatened to tip, then came out of a hole into which the right front wheel had fallen. The mules strained with all their strength, swung back toward solid ground, and Joe breathed his thanks because he had mules. Horses or oxen would have gone right ahead, leaving the wagon hopelessly mired and perhaps drowning themselves. Mules did their own thinking.

For a brief second that lengthened into eternity, and while the mules strove mightily to move it, the wagon stopped. Then it was moving again and Joe felt sick. The right front wheel had gone down, and the right front wheel was still down while the wagon dragged on its axle. The wheel was broken, and he had a spare for everything except wheels. Then he stifled his fright.

The mules came to safe ground and stopped, their sides heaving. Joe stepped from the wagon to see what he knew he would find. The rim was broken, and the spokes. There was no possibility of repairing the wheel. Tad joined him, then Emma and Barbara.

"Why don't you fix it, Pa?" Tad asked.

"I can't." He looked levelly at Emma. "Are you afraid to stay with the youngsters for a while?"

She looked at him, unable to answer.

"I'll leave the rifle with Tad."

"What are you going to do, Joe?"

"The only thing I can do, ride back to that abandoned wagon we saw and take a wheel from it. The mules won't be hauling a wagon and I should be able to make time. If I leave now, I can get a long way before dark."

She gritted her teeth. What must be, must be.

"I'll fix you some lunch."

"Thank you, darling. Tad, walk with me, will you?"

"Sure, Pa."

Tad beside him, Joe walked up the river bank. He swallowed hard. If there were a fort, or even a house—But there wasn't any and he couldn't build any. Joe turned to his son. He looked down in the wide, trusting eyes, and he felt both proud and fearful.

"Tad, you must take over."

"Sure, Pa." His face was eager.

"I don't think you'll have any trouble. But if you do, if anyone at all comes, don't try to defend the wagon. Walk away and let them have it."

"Suppose they come after us?"

"Then," Joe said grimly, "shoot and shoot to kill!"

Tad blinked once, and then he said soberly, "Yes, Pa."

Joe took from his box the tools he needed, and strapped them to the horse mule's harness. Emma pressed a parcel into his hands.

"Here's food." Suddenly her eyes misted over, and her mouth trembled, and then stopped. "You—you watch yourself, Joe. Be careful." She managed a smile.

"I'll be all right," he called as he rode away. "I'll be back before you know it."

They watched him ride away, the younger children merely staring. But Barbara and Emma had a sudden sense of weakness, as though their strength were going with him. Tad set his jaw and clutched the rifle.

Joe turned once to wave.

As soon as he was out of sight, the loneliness and desolation, the terrible emptiness of this wild place, struck Emma Tower like a solid blow. She shivered and kept her face averted because she did not want her children to see what was written there. Gazing down the Trail, she thought she saw Joe again and knew she had not. He had gone on a lonely, dangerous ride, and for a moment she entertained the soul-chilling notion that she would never see him again.

Then she banished such thoughts from her mind. She was here, halfway between Missouri and God only knew where, because she had confidence in Joe's ability to take care of his family and himself. She loved Missouri and she would have been perfectly contented to stay there. But she loved Joe more, and she knew all about the desperate longings and wild undercurrents which were within him and which he must constantly battle. She knew about the opportunities he had always sought but never had, and of his hopes for his children. If Oregon was the answer to that, then Oregon it would be.

Now, for another moment, all she knew was that she had been deserted and that it was terrible. Had she been alone, she told herself, she might have wept, for she felt like weeping. Then she knew that that was wrong too. Had there been no children dependent on her, she would have gone with Joe. But the children were here and she rose to the occasion.

"Tad," she called, "you and Barbara pick up some of that driftwood along the river and bring it in."

She watched them as they left to do her bidding, her lovely daughter and the son who was so like his father. Tad had the long rifle over his shoulder and he would not go out of sight of the wagon. Every second or so he looked toward it. Tad returned with all the wood he could carry, two small pieces clutched under his arm and dragging a larger piece.

"Tad," Emma told him, "if you would leave the rifle here you could carry a lot more wood."

"No," he demurred.

"Yes you could."

"No. Pa told me to watch over things and I aim to do it."

She almost smiled openly, but stopped herself in time. A daughter of Missouri, she knew something about rifles and she had seen her son aim from a jolting, careening wagon and stop a running buffalo with one shot. Suddenly, though she could not help worrying about Joe, the emptiness was not a complete vacuum and she no longer felt deserted. This, while not normal, was no extraordinary situation. The Towers might be here instead of in a proper house. Wherever they were, they would take care of themselves.

The chickens scratched in the grass. Tethered in good grazing, the gentle cow stood patiently while Emma milked her. She marveled. Though the cow had walked all the way from Missouri, and could graze only when the wagon stopped, she still gave almost a third as much milk as she had given at home. Emma petted her affectionately. She was a very good cow, one that would be of some use after they got to Oregon.

Tad laid the fire. Lying on the windward side, he shielded it with his body and started the blaze with only one match. The match bottle he corked carefully and put exactly where it belonged. Emma watched fondly and a little wistfully. Some time, she thought, the world might be in such a condition that an eight-year-old could be a boy without having to be a man. Still, if there was any lack in his life, Tad did not seem to be aware of it. He had been left with responsibilities, and he was accepting them. And he fairly bristled with his new-found self-importance.

The three youngest children had become a herd of stampeding buffalo and baby Emma was the wagon they were trying to cut off. Young Joe entered so enthusiastically into the game that he made himself the buffalo that had bumped the wagon, and baby Emma took a seat in the grass. At once the adventuring wagon became a wailing child who was gathered up and comforted in Barbara's slim arms.

Emma baked bread, broiled buffalo steaks, and divided the milk, giving each of the youngest children a double portion and Barbara and herself a half portion. She liked coffee with her evening meals. But they were low on coffee, she wanted to save what there was for Joe, and it was by no means certain that they would be able to buy any at Laramie. Even if some were available it would probably be expensive, for every pound of everything except meat had to be freighted in wagons or carried on the backs of pack animals.

Barbara and Emma washed the dishes, put them away, and Emma gathered her children around the fire.

"Tell us a story," Alfred begged.

Emma had never been good at story-telling, and she felt a swift pang of longing for Joe. "Let's sing."

She had a sweet and clear soprano, and Barbara's voice was as lovely as Barbara. They sang "Yankee Doodle," the first song Yancey Garrow had played for them and one Emma had learned at her father's knee. It was the marching song of American soldiers in the Revolutionary War, and Emma's father had fought in that war. There was discord at first, but even Carlyle caught the rhythm and carried his end fairly well. They went through the same song four times because the children were entranced with their ability to sing it, and then Tad rose to peer into the enfolding shadows of early evening.

"The fire should be out, huh?"

Emma said, "Yes. But let's make our beds first."

She said no more and was grateful because Tad and Barbara said nothing. The four youngest children knew only that the fire was going out. They did not know that a blazing fire can be seen a very long way at night, and who could be sure what savage beings prowled this lonely land?

Tad tied Mike to the wagon, and Emma knew why he was doing it. Some nights Mike was apt to go prowling, and that was all right as long as Joe was with them. Nobody worried then, for nobody doubted that Joe would hear, in time, any danger that stalked them. But tonight Mike must not prowl, for they depended on him to warn them.

Emma let the drop curtain fall and took Barbara and baby Emma on her side. She peered around the curtain to see Tad, who had chosen to sleep near the partly open flaps, arranging the powder horn and bullet pouch where he could reach them in an instant. The rifle he laid beside him. In the night, when none of her children could watch, Emma's hand stole forth to grasp a long-bladed knife. She took it to bed with her, and only then did she pray.

She lay sleepless but unmoving in the darkness. The wind rustled the wagon cover, and she heard the cow moving about. A leaping fish splashed in the river. The coyotes began their chorus. These were all familiar noises and they could be dismissed as such. Emma waited tensely for the one sound she hoped she would not hear; the dog's challenging bark. She whispered through the curtain,

"Tad?"

"Yes, Ma?"

"Go to sleep now."

"Yes, Ma."

Tad stopped his restless wriggling, sorry because he had kept his mother awake. Very carefully, not making a sound, he rose and peered through the back flaps. He couldn't see anything, but he thought he saw something and cold fright gripped him. He lay down, knowing that he must not sleep and wishing mightily that Joe was here. Everything always seemed so safe and secure then, but everything was so terrifying now. He leaped at a noise, then identified it as Mike's grunting. Tad nodded sleepily, and he was half awake and half asleep when he heard the thunder of horses' hoofs. They were sweeping down on the wagon; and opening the back flaps, Tad saw them coming. There were at least forty of the Indians, and even though his father had told him not to defend the wagon, he had to defend it now. He shot, saw the leading warrior pitch from his horse, and reloaded the rifle to shoot again. Trembling, he came completely awake and lay shivering for a moment. What he had heard was only the wind plucking at the wagon cover. Now lulled by the sound, Tad settled back into bed. He thought of Buster Trevelyan, back in Missouri, and hoped that some day he would see Buster again so he could tell all about his hair-raising adventures on the Oregon Trail. He heard a night bird call, fought himself to wakefulness, then went to sleep with his cheek on the rifle.

After an eternity, morning was upon them. Cloud banks surged in the sky, and the sun could not break through them. The north wind seemed keener and colder than it had been before. Emma dressed the babies, glanced at Tad to make sure that he had dressed himself warmly, and took up the duties of the day.

She made the longest possible ceremony of breakfast. Even so, after it was all done and the dishes washed, the endless day faced her. She glanced wistfully at the river, and thought of all the clothes that must be washed. However, this was not the time for washing. There were more important affairs.

Her children about her, shadowed by the rifle-carrying Tad, she walked a little way down the Oregon Trail. But she did not walk very far because Carlyle's legs would not carry him far. As slowly as possible she returned to the wagon, and the youngsters shrieked with delight as Mike bounced after a jack rabbit that speedily left him behind.

Emma built up the fire while Barbara organized a game of hide-and-seek among the children. Emma took her needle and thread and mended some of Joe's trousers, and she took some small comfort from this much contact with him.

Even though she dreaded it, she was glad when night came again. All day long the youngsters had had to be kept busy and happy, and there were only her own and Barbara's resources upon which to draw. Though she feared what the night would bring, at least the youngsters would sleep. Emma put them to bed, and again, in the darkness, she took the long knife in bed with her. She whispered of her weariness and terror to Joe, and hoped that, somehow, he would hear her and come back. Grimly she fought exhaustion, and set herself to listen as she had listened all last night. It was still dark inside the wagon when she heard Mike's challenging bark.

She awoke in sudden panic, terrified by the thought that she had let herself sleep. The knife clasped tightly in her hand, she sat up in bed. Barbara awakened.

"What is it, mother?"

"Hush!"

She heard the back flaps rustle, and she peered around the curtain to see Tad, rifle in hand, climbing out of the wagon. Emma slipped past the curtain and stepped carefully over her still-sleeping sons. It was still dark inside the wagon, but dawn's first faint light had come. Emma leaned over the rear.

"What is it, Tad?"

"Stay in the wagon!" he hissed.

She saw him crouching, holding Mike's muzzle so the dog could not bark again and peering intently in the direction the dog was looking. Emma tightened her grip on the knife and made ready to fight for her children's lives.

She did not weaken, or feel herself go limp, or give way to tears, until she heard Tad's happily shouted,

"It's Pa! Pa's come back!"