In the time he'd spent at Snedeker's, Joe had learned a great deal.

Snedeker was a Mountain Man, one of that rare breed who had waded every stream in the west in their search for beaver. They fought every tribe of Indians that showed fight, went without hesitation where they wished to go, and spent incredibly long and dangerous months with only their rifles and their resourcefulness as protection. Then they took their furs to some wild fort, or some wilderness rendezvous, and in a few days spent all the money they had earned in a whole season of perilous living.

The heyday of the Mountain Men spanned only a brief sixteen years when no gentleman was really dressed unless he wore a beaver hat. Silk replaced beaver, and broke the fur market. But though their livelihood was gone, the Mountain Men weren't. Some returned to the east. Some guided wagon trains across country that they knew as well as the emigrants knew their own back yards. Some simply disappeared, gone in search of what they considered wild and free country. And some, like Snedeker, merely transferred their way of living to other pursuits and lived much as they always had.

At their first meeting, Snedeker had enraged Joe. Now Joe understood him, and with understanding had come both liking and respect. Throughout his adult life Snedeker had bowed to no will except his own, and he saw no reason for changing his ways. But, though his outward air was that of a grizzly bear with a sore paw, inwardly he was soft as a marshmallow. A shrewd bargainer, he seemed to have an instinctive knowledge of how much money emigrants carried and how much they were willing to spend. But no penniless emigrant had ever been turned away, though Snedeker would not outfit them clear to Oregon. Whether they were east- or westbound, he gave them a couple of days' supplies and sent them to Laramie where, as Snedeker knew, they became the government's responsibility.

Joe had lost his misgivings about wintering at the post. No war party could take Laramie, but neither could any take Snedeker's. They'd already tried it and succeeded only in running off a few horses. Taking their trail, Snedeker had brought back the stock he'd lost and a number of the Indian ponies as well. Besides, according to Snedeker, there was small danger of an Indian attack in winter. The tribes that came to Laramie wintered on northern hunting grounds, and their ponies had to exist as best they could. Since no western Indian would think of going into battle without a mount, they made war in the spring after there was sufficient grass to fatten and strengthen their horses. The three the Towers had met must have been strays, or possibly they had to go to Laramie for something they needed.

On a wind-swept hill about a half mile from the post, Joe sank his ax cleanly into a pine. Expertly he measured his next strike, and when the ax sank in, a large chip of wood broke out. Wasting not one blow of his ax or a half ounce of strength, Joe felled the tree cleanly and rested a moment. He glanced over to where Ellis Garner had another pine two-thirds felled. Joe nodded approvingly. There were tricks to handling an ax. When he and Ellis had started felling trees, which Snedeker needed to enlarge his post, Ellis had had a lot to learn. But under Joe's expert guidance he was learning fast, and, given a year or two of experience, he would be a good ax man himself.

Ellis stopped chopping and grinned across the space that separated them. "You must pick the softest trees."

"That's an ax you have in your hand," Joe gibed. "Not a feather. Don't use it like one."

"Yes, teacher."

Joe grinned and went back to work. He had grown to like this slim and soft-spoken youngster, but at the same time he worried about him. Where Ellis came from Joe didn't know and he hadn't asked; one didn't inquire too deeply into anyone else's past life. Probably he was from somewhere in the east and he had been to school; that showed in his manner and his choice of words. But there was within him an undercurrent of irritability, and at times he was moody and fretful. Somewhere behind him there seemed to be a memory that hurt. Increasingly, Joe compared him to the suave and polished Percy Pearl, who never farmed, never worked for wages, but who always had everything he needed. Not that there was anything suave or polished about Ellis—on the contrary, he was impulsive, often unpredictable. But he had Percy's quickness and dry humor and, like Percy, he gave you the feeling he might go after anything he wanted, and get it, without being too critical of ways and means. Percy was an outlaw and Ellis might become one. But that was his business unless Ellis's affairs should become too closely entwined with the Tower's.

Joe frowned as he worked. Ellis had taken more than a casual interest in Barbara, which was not unusual because Joe had yet to meet the young man who was not attracted to his daughter. They were together much of the time, and they took long walks. Joe thought of Hugo Gearey, who was at Laramie because of girl trouble in New York. Snedeker had said that Ellis had followed a girl all the way from Maryland, and what sort of trouble was he in? Why was he here at an isolated trading post?

Joe trimmed the branches from his tree, leaving a smooth trunk. He felled and trimmed another pine and looked toward the tethered mules. They were still in harness, but their bridles were slipped and Joe had tied them out of the bitterest wind. He glanced down the slanting, ice-sheathed furrow that led to the post. The day after their arrival, new snow had added six inches to that already on the ground and there had been light falls since. Joe had driven the mules through it to break a track, and had dragged one log down the broken track. Succeeding loads had widened and packed it, so that now the mules were able to pull as many logs as could be hitched on.

The weather had turned cold enough so that Joe's nostrils pinched when he stood still, and a little rime of frost formed about the muzzles of the tethered mules. That wouldn't hurt them as long as they didn't have to stand on a short tether for any great length of time, and if they did not stand at all when they sweated. There was little danger of that in such weather; the team had only to walk to the place where they were cutting pines and the logs were not hard to pull down the icy slide. Joe sank his ax into the felled pine's stump and walked over to Ellis.

"How are you doing?"

"All right."

Joe stood, feeling the goodness he usually felt after a day of hard and productive labor. At the same time he felt a swelling relief and a rising little happiness. Tomorrow was a very special day.

Joe said, "Don't seem like tonight is Christmas Eve, does it?"

Ellis murmured absently, "No, it doesn't."

"Let's go in."

"Suits me."

Joe bridled the mules. He drove them to the felled trees and laid his long chain across the slide. His ax swinging from his hand, Ellis joined him. They used peavies to roll logs into a compact pile and bound the chain around them. Knowing that their work would be done as soon as they had dragged these last logs down to Snedeker's building site, the mules needed no urging or even driving. Joe looped the reins over the mules' harness and walked companionably beside Ellis. Glad that the day's work was over, the younger man slashed restlessly at the icy slide with his ax.

Joe said caustically, "Tenderfoot!"

"What's wrong now, teacher?"

"Axes are for cutting wood, not ice. I'll bet you nicked it."

Ellis shrugged. "Live and learn. I won't do it again."

He seemed irritable, depressed, and Joe stole a sidewise glance at him. "A penny for your thoughts."

"You'd be cheated," Ellis grinned sheepishly.

"Say, what are you so gosh darn low about?"

"I'm not low. Are you coming over tonight?"

"The kids will be over. I have work to do."

"Don't you ever think of anything else?"

"Can't. When you're an old man like me, with a bunch of youngsters looking to you, you won't be able to either."

For a moment they walked in silence while Ellis's introspective mood enfolded him like an invisible cloak. He said suddenly,

"Joe, what do you think of women?"

For a moment, because he was puzzled, Joe did not answer. It was more than a casual question, and behind it lay something that Joe failed to understand. When he did answer, he said very gently,

"I know about only one woman, son. And I think the world of her."

"Do you believe in love?"

Joe said firmly, "I most certainly do."

"Do—do you think it's right—? Oh, darn it! I'm all at sea!" he steadied. "Joe, I'm giving it to you straight. I'm going to marry Barbara if I can! Do you have any objections?"

Shocked surprise rippled through Joe and his heart turned cold. He felt numb. He had always known that Barbara would marry some day, but that day remained in the distant future and there was no need to worry about it now. Joe thought of the young man who walked beside him, and of how very little he knew about him. Again he thought of Snedeker's reference to Ellis as a woman chaser and he had a great urge to ask Ellis to tell him so that his own doubts might be cleared. But because he did not know how to ask, Joe said only,

"Have you asked Barbara?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"She didn't say no."

Joe pondered, trying to straighten this in his mind. He knew a little more about Ellis than he had known a moment ago. Wherever he had come from, and whatever he might have done, he had not tried to evade this issue. He had given it to Joe straight, as a man should, and that was a large point in his favor.

Ellis repeated, "I asked if you had any objections."

Joe said quietly, "I'm her father, Ellis, not her master. I'm not going to choose a husband for her."

"Thanks, Joe."

There was another silence, and Ellis said thoughtfully, "Joe—"

"Yes?"

"There's a New Year's dance at Laramie. Will you let Barbara go with me?"

"Laramie's a long ways off."

"We'll go one day and come back the next. She can stay with Sergeant Driscoll's wife overnight."

"Have you asked her?"

"She said she'd like to go."

"You'll have to ask her mother."

"I know. She said I'd have to have your permission and her mother's."

Joe hesitated, then thought of Emma's wisdom. She would know exactly what to do, and Joe said,

"It's all right with me if it is with her mother."

"Thanks again, Joe."

They left the logs beside those already at the new building site, and Ellis wandered toward the main post where he lived with Snedeker. Joe stabled the mules and fed them hay and grain; animals that work hard should eat well. He filled his lungs with the crisp air and turned toward the quarters Snedeker had given him and his family. Joe frowned as he did so.

Laramie, staffed by soldiers and with the best freighters at its command, was still strictly utilitarian. Though their quarters at Laramie had been comfortable, they had not afforded what Joe was beginning to think of as the luxuries they'd had in Missouri. Snedeker's necessarily offered less than Laramie. The cabin was wind- and weather-tight, but it was crude. Built as quarters for men, it had a large kitchen served by a fireplace and a larger bunk room with ten bunks and a bigger fireplace.

By stretching buffalo hides from ceiling to floor, Joe had divided it into three rooms; one for Emma and himself; one for Barbara and little Emma; and one for the four boys. Each had privacy, and using their own mattresses and quilts on the bunks added to their comfort. But it still lacked conveniences and Joe thought Emma was beginning to feel the strain. She looked tired and worn, or was that his imagination? It couldn't be, he decided. Tad was seldom in the cabin except for meals and Barbara helped her mother. But the youngsters could go out for only short intervals, and keeping four children happy in such a place would be a strain on anyone.

Joe opened the door, entered, and closed the door quickly to keep the cold wind out. He stamped snow from his boots. The youngsters rushed across the floor to meet him. They clustered about his legs while he removed his jacket and hung it on a wooden peg driven into the wall. Barbara waved from the fireplace. Joe kissed Emma and after one swift glance at his face she stepped back to raise an inquiring brow.

"Is something wrong?" she asked softly.

He murmured, "Wait'll the kids are gone."

"You sit down," Emma urged. "We'll have buffalo steak again for supper."

She spoke a little tiredly, and Joe said nothing. Snedeker had a limited supply of sugar, flour, salt, coffee, and all the other staples and these he sold to Joe for just what they cost at Laramie. Joe's own quota was free, for that had been part of their bargain, but he had to pay for what his family used. The meat that went with it, for which Snedeker charged nothing, was buffalo, elk, antelope, bear, and bighorn. Because there was more buffalo than anything else, they ate it most of the time and Emma was wearying of it. All they had in addition was such milk as the cow gave. Emma's chickens, in a shed by themselves, hadn't laid for weeks.

Emma went back to her work and Joe sank down in a chair. He'd told the children a story every night, usually centering it on something he had seen or done while felling trees, and the subject was wearing thin. Unable to think of any new slants, he assured them that his knee was a big black horse and bounced each of them in turn. Tad, who had a supernatural talent for appearing whenever there was anything to eat, raced in just as Emma and Barbara put the food on the table.

Every night, as soon as the dishes were washed, all of them usually went over to while away a couple of hours with Snedeker and Ellis. Given a free hand to do as they wished, the younger children played with Snedeker's few trade goods; they were few in winter because few Indians came to trade. They brought their buffalo robes in spring, but by that time Snedeker would have more goods. This night Joe and Emma did not put their coats on and the younger children looked questioningly at them.

"Go with Barbara," Emma told them. "We'll stay home tonight."

Barbara, who knew some things that the youngsters did not, winked knowingly at her parents and dressed the younger children. They trooped out into the night, and Joe and Emma were left alone. Joe stared moodily into the fire while Emma waited expectantly. Joe said,

"Ellis wants to marry Barbara."

She bit her lower lip, but did not register the astonishment that Joe had anticipated. He nodded; probably she'd already known.

"It isn't unexpected," she said.

"What do you think about it?"

Emma hesitated. "Barbara hasn't accepted him."

"How do you know?"

Emma said, "She'd have told me."

Joe pondered. "He seems like a good enough young man, but we don't know a blasted thing about him. I wouldn't want Barbara to get in a mess."

"What did you tell him, Joe?"

"That I am Barbara's father, not her master. I can't tell her who to marry." He scowled, wondering if he'd done right. Emma laid a comforting hand on his arm.

"What else could you have told him?"

"Nothing."

She sighed. "That's right. All we can do is help guide Barbara."

"There's another thing. Ellis wants to take her to a New Year's dance at Laramie. He said they'll go one day and come back the next, and Barbara can stay with Ynez Driscoll overnight."

"What did you say to that?"

"I said he'd have to ask you."

Emma said hesitantly, "It may be a good idea and it may not. I'll have to think about it." Joe saw that she had clasped her hands together, and that the knuckles showed white. Unquestionably she was worried about Barbara and Ellis, more worried than he was. Joe knew, too, that Emma would leave no stone unturned to learn more about Ellis before things went much further, and he suspected that she would learn about Ellis not by asking questions of Snedeker, but by talking with Ellis himself.

The fire blazed brightly, casting shadows on the rough-hewn beams that supported the ceiling and on the uneven floor. There was a spot of dirt on the floor, and Emma stooped mechanically to brush it up. Joe looked fondly at her, and knew that she had already borne trials which only a strong person could bear. His brow clouded when he thought of trials still to come.

He said, "It's been a hard road, Emma, and a long one."

"We didn't expect it would be easy, Joe." And then, because she saw he needed something more from her, she said, "We've been lucky, Joe. We're through with the worst weather—we won't need to move again until spring. Meanwhile—why, we're just as comfortable here as we could be in our own home!"

He smiled wryly, and held her eyes with his own honest glance.

"It's not our own home, though, and nothing will ever feel like home again until we've stopped moving, and planted crops, and have our own roof over our heads."

He had said what was in her mind, so there was no need for further speech on that subject. She came to him and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

He jumped to his feet and grabbed her in a furious hug. "Emma, my fine girl!" he declared. "When we get to Oregon I'm going to build you a house that will make our other house seem like a chicken coop!"

She looked at him with all of her love and faith, and with laughter in her eyes. "With five acres of flower garden and a square mile just for the chickens!" she said. They laughed uproariously, ridiculously. Then Joe remembered something.

"Excuse me a minute."

Joe went to the wagon, and took from the tool box the one parcel that had been there since leaving Laramie. Very gently he gave it to Emma.

"Merry Christmas, my dear."

"Joe!" She held the package tenderly, caressing it with her spirit before she did with her hands, for she knew the gift could never be forsaken or forgotten. She heard Joe say,

"I only wish it was half as fine as you are."

Her hands trembled as she opened the package and gazed with rapt eyes at the scarf. Emma, who had seen little except hardship since leaving Missouri, brushed this truly beautiful thing with her hands and pressed it against her cheek. In the exquisite scarf she saw all her hopes and dreams come alive.

She said, "I have something for you, too."

She gave him a watch, a thick silver watch that had been made by some German craftsman and had somehow found its way to the sutler's store at Fort Laramie. Joe gazed at it, not believing what he saw. Watches were luxuries, thus they were only for those who could afford luxuries. Joe turned the key. He held the watch to his ear so he could hear its ticking.

In the middle of a wilderness, on their way to another, owning only what they could load on a wagon, they sat very close and knew the true spirit of Christmas. They watched the minute hand, amazed at how slowly time passed when you were looking at it, and then they laughed again, free and hearty laughter that can be born only of hope and faith in the future.

Joe said, "I'll have to get busy."

A lighted lantern in his hand, he went to a small pine he had already marked and chopped it cleanly. From behind the cabin he took a bucket of sand that he had saved for this purpose, and thrust the tree upright in it. When he re-entered the cabin, popcorn snapped in Emma's skillet and for one of the few times since leaving the farm, her trunk was open. There were parcels and jars on the table. Her new scarf worn proudly on her shoulders, Emma looked up from the fireplace.

"Canned pumpkin." She indicated the jars. "I brought it all this way so we can have pumpkin pie tomorrow."

"Oh boy!" Joe smacked his lips.

The cabin seemed to have come alive with the spirit of Christmas. The rafters had a softer glow. Through their minds ran strains of gay music they had heard, but it was so real that it seemed to be heard again in the cabin.

Emma asked, "Pop some more corn, will you?"

"Sure thing."

While Joe knelt before the fireplace, Emma threaded a needle and strung popcorn on the thread. She draped it gracefully over the tree, then opened a parcel and took colored ornaments from it. They were the tree ornaments Emma had had from her mother, and she'd treasured them for years. The tree sparkled in its new-found glory.

Emma had wrapped the children's presents carefully and separately, and had written their name on each. She arranged them beside the tree, then took another armful of wrapped presents out of the trunk. Joe looked at them, surprised.

"What are they?"

"Barbara's presents. She knitted hats for you, Mr. Snedeker, and Ellis."

"I never saw her knitting."

"How could you when you're away all day long?" She was impatient now. "Do you want to call them, Joe? Bring all of them."

"Right away."

Not bothering with a coat, Joe ran across the short space that separated their cabin from the store and entered. A wolf pelt draped over his shoulders, Tad was leading his brothers in a march among the counters and baby Emma was playing with a string of bright beads she had found. Snedeker tilted on a chair beside the fire, watching the children. Barbara and Ellis sat together on the opposite side of the fireplace, and Joe did not look too closely at them. Ellis had told him that Barbara hadn't said no, and it did seem that they sat pretty close together.

Joe called, "You're all coming over to our place."

"Run along, kids," Snedeker told them. "Your maw wants you."

"You too, Jim."

"Me? What would she want me for?"

"Come over and find out."

"I'll be doggone!" Snedeker exclaimed. "Fust time in thutty years a white woman's wanted to see me! You sure?"

"I'm sure. Come on."

Barbara rose and Joe's eyes were drawn to her. He had always known that his daughter was lovely. Now she seemed radiant, and she floated across the rough wooden floor to her father. Barbara's voice was an angel's breath.

"Look, Daddy!"

Around her neck she wore a golden chain, and on the chain was a ring set with a red stone. Joe gazed with intense interest for never before had he seen such a stone. It caught and trapped the lantern's light, and the fire's glow, and captured within itself some of the crimson that warmed Barbara's cheeks. The stone seemed alive and fiery, and though he knew little about such things Joe knew that it was precious.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's a ruby," Barbara told him. "Ellis gave it to me."

"It was my mother's," Ellis said eagerly.

Joe looked at him askance. "Do you think you should give it away?"

Quick anger flashed across Ellis's face. "I think I should give it to Barbara."

"Well." Ellis's response unsettled him, and for a second Joe debated the possible facets to this situation, then lost himself in the spirit of the evening, "Come on. Emma's waiting."

He led them to the cabin, stood aside as they entered, and heard Emma's sincere, "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas, everybody!" Joe glanced at Barbara and Ellis, standing close together. The younger children, all of whom had remembered Christmas in Missouri but none of whom had thought of it on the Oregon Trail, stared wide-eyed at the tree. Joe fidgeted, glad because Emma knew just what to do. She addressed the wondering children,

"Santa Claus was here and he left something for everyone." She picked up a wrapped gift. "Carlyle."

Emma put the package in his hands and helped him open it. Staring at this gaily painted wonder, the baby toddled off to cradle the horse in his lap. He moved the movable legs and stroked the silken mane. Alfred stood breathlessly, his mouth open and his eyes shining. Little Joe was excited and baby Emma danced. Tad stood as he saw the men standing, but what he felt showed in his bright eyes.

"This must be Oregon!" Alfred exclaimed.

The adults smiled gently while Alfred stared in fascination at his bow and arrows. Joe opened his present, and two arrows whistled across the room. Her face wholly blissful, little Emma cradled the doll in her arms and began crooning to it. Tad's eyes glowed when he tore the wrappings from his hatchet. He tested the blade with his thumb and immediately began honing it.

Lost in this unforgettable evening, Barbara slipped the silver bracelet over her slim wrist and held it up for all to see. She smiled her thanks at her father and mother. Emma picked up another package.

"Ellis. Barbara made it for you."

He took the knitted hat. It was of two colors, with a buffalo head worked into the front and a silver tassel. He tried it on, then slipped it off. The glance he gave Barbara was filled with infinite tenderness, and nobody except Barbara heard his low-voiced thanks.

"Jim."

"Lordy, lordy!" Snedeker breathed.

Spellbound, he looked at the hat. Then he took his battered headpiece off, opened the door, and threw it into the snow. The new hat he smoothed over his shaggy locks, and reached up to touch it as though he could not believe it was there. Snedeker strode across the floor, threw both arms around Barbara, and kissed her. Barbara blushed.

The whistling wind played with the shingles on the cabin and plucked at the chinking in the logs. Absorbed in their presents, the youngsters scarcely glanced up. A coyote on the ridge behind the cabin began to yell. Then the outside noises quieted for a moment and Emma's clear voice sang,

Joe joined in the centuries-old hymn, then Barbara and Ellis, and the children. Jim Snedeker retreated to the background. He took his hat off and stood silently, and in that moment he revealed completely the man within his hard outer shell. Emma led the next carol,

Outside, the wind howled louder, and the coyote yelled again. But they seemed strange and far-off noises that had no relation whatever with the cabin or with those inside it. The spirit of the season was theirs, and they were one with Him who had died for them. The last notes of the last carol still trembled in the cabin when Emma smiled graciously,

"Jim, you and Ellis are to have dinner with us tomorrow. There'll be pumpkin pie and roast antelope."

"Wait a bit, ma'am," Snedeker protested. "Did you say antelope?"

"Yes, Jim."

"Reckon not," Snedeker decided. "You just wait a bit. Don't leave your hosses gallop away an' I'll be back."

He put his new hat tenderly on his head and left the cabin. Presently he was back, with a huge smoked ham dangling from his right hand. It was one Snedeker had been hoarding for his own use, and the last ham at the post, but he gave it freely.

"Better Christmas dinner than antelope," he affirmed.

Emma's eyes shone with her pleasure at the prospect of a traditional Christmas feast. "Oh! Thank you, Jim!"

"Welcome, ma'am! Plain welcome! I ain't had a Christmas like this sinst I was eight years old. Well, I'll be shaggin' along. Comin', Ellis?"

"Soon."

Ellis lingered until the children were in bed, then bade a reluctant good night and prepared to leave. Emma got her coat.

"Would you mind walking me to the store, Ellis? I do need a bit of sugar."

"I'll be happy to, Mrs. Tower."

"Let me—" Joe began.

Emma said quickly, "No, you stay here, Joe. I'll get it."

Ellis held the door for her and they stepped into the brisk night. Emma waited for him to join her.

"Brr! Isn't it cold?"

"It certainly is."

She sensed his uncertainty, his embarrassment, and did her best to put him at ease.

"Come. Walk beside me."

She slipped her hand through his arm and drew him a bit closer.

"You're a tall young man, Ellis. Your mother must be very proud of you."

There was wistfulness in this voice, "I haven't any mother. She died when I was eight."

"Oh." Emma's sympathy was immediate and sincere. "I'm sorry! Do you remember very much about her."

He said simply, "I'll never forget her. We lived in Baltimore."

"Was it nice there?"

His voice was dreamy. "While my mother was alive, we had a big house and there was always fun. But she went, and then my father died when I was twelve and—"

He paused suddenly and turned to look shrewdly at her. "Any more questions, Mrs. Tower?"

In the darkness, Emma blushed. But she carried on determinedly. "You've expressed a desire to marry Barbara," she said frankly, "and you want to take her on an overnight trip to Laramie. Naturally, I intend to find out a great deal more about you, Ellis."

"Very well!" he said, angry now. "Here are some facts." He began speaking rapidly and distinctly, shooting out the facts as though he were making a legal report. "When my father died my Uncle George was the executor. There was always enough money, but Uncle George and I didn't get along. He wanted me to go into his bank. I didn't care for that. For a year I went to Columbian College—that's in Washington, Mrs. Tower, and then...."

He broke off sharply, and there was a long moment of silence. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and ashamed. "Forgive me, Mrs. Tower. You've a right to know everything about me that you want to know. You've already found out one bad thing about me—I have a quick temper and an unpleasant one. I want to apologize."

"That's all right, Ellis," Emma said serenely. "Let's go on from here. You were at college in Washington, you say?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said humbly. "I met a girl in Washington, Mary Harkness. I was in love with her. When Mary's folks decided to come west, there seemed to be nothing left for me in the east. I came along. It seemed the right thing to do. I had enough money to buy a horse and everything else I needed."

"What happened, Ellis?" Emma whispered.

"When we got to Laramie, Mary married a man named Jeremy Blake. They went on together."

Emma's voice was very gentle. "Did it hurt?"

"I wished I could die."

Emma said, "You must understand that not all women are good, Ellis, any more than all men are. After enticing you to come along, and then marrying someone else—"

"I haven't made myself clear, Mrs. Tower. She did not entice me to come along; I came of my own free will and entirely because I wanted to. Nor was Mary in any sense of the word bad or deceitful. She is fine, loyal, and good. She simply didn't want me."

Emma's heart beat happily. Ellis had chased a woman all the way from Maryland, Jim Snedeker had said. Now Emma knew the story. She asked,

"What did you do then, Ellis?"

There was a faint trace of remembered bitterness in his voice. "I went to work for Jim. I knew there would be nothing for me at his post, but the way I felt then there seemed to be nothing for me anywhere. I just worked along, without much hope or any plan at all. Then you brought Barbara."

"And she means much to you?"

He said firmly, "I'm grateful Mary made the choice she did."

She took his arm. "Come along, I must get my sugar." She stopped at the entrance to the store. "Oh, Ellis. One more thing. About that New Year's dance at Fort Laramie. I want you to know that I think it's a splendid idea."

"You do!"

"Certainly. Young people should enjoy themselves, and Barbara will be perfectly all right with Ynez Driscoll." She was rewarded with a smile of the purest gratitude and delight.

Emma bought a pound of sugar, which she really had not needed, and went back to the cabin. Contentedly she slept beside Joe, and was still drowsy when he awakened. She knew when Joe got out of bed to start both fires, then crawled back in to wait until the cabin warmed. She heard the children giggling in their beds.

They breakfasted, and Emma and Barbara began to prepare the Christmas dinner. Except that they would have had turkey instead of ham, everything would have been exactly this way back in Missouri. But so long had they been out, living from what they had in the wagon and building fires under every possible condition, and so much longer had they been at Snedeker's, eating wild meat and stretching other foods as far as possible in order to save money, that this seemed to be scaling the utmost heights of luxury. They baked the ham and pies, and Emma opened three jars of string beans that had also been saved for this occasion. There were no potatoes. But there was feathery-light bread and butter.

It was a memorable Christmas dinner, one that was never forgotten by any of the older people who partook of it. Emma had brought spices for the ham, and Joe carved and served pink slices of the steaming delicacy. When everybody had eaten as much as they could, there was still a full third of the ham left. But Emma's three pumpkin pies had been eaten to the last crumb.

Tad went out to test his hatchet, and after the dishes were washed Barbara and Ellis took a walk in the snow. Emma and Joe watched the young couple as they left. Emma had told her husband of her talk with Ellis. His response had been an uneasy one.

"He's mighty hasty, seems to me."

"Mighty young, too," she had reminded him.

Still enthralled with their presents, the youngsters played busily. Snedeker took a blackened pipe from his pocket, filled it with vile-smelling tobacco, and offered the tobacco pouch to Joe.

"Smoke?"

"No thanks. I never got the habit."

"Lordy, lordy. No smokin'. No drinkin'. What do you do, Joe?"

"I like to hunt and fish."

"Of both you'll find a heap in Oregon," Snedeker assured him. "Though 'tain't an' never will be like 'twas. I remember—"

Joe and Emma listened while he spoke of the west that used to be. He spoke of Blackfeet, Sioux, Pawnees, and of battles with them. He created word pictures of virgin creeks which, until the Mountain Men came, had known no white man's tracks. There were so many buffalo that the plains were black with them and the thunder of their hoofs drowned even a shrieking wind. Snedeker told of vast herds of deer, elk, and antelope. He told of colorful camps and rendezvous.

"I seen it all," he continued, "and 'tain't so many years it took to see it. The like will never be again. The west is growin' up. Buffalo hides have took the place of beaver. Emmy-grants, crazy for land, are pourin' in like a falls off a mountain. Mebbe, when you come to think of it, that's right too. The west was made for people, not buffalo. Do you know they's even crazy talk of a railroad an' wire line clean across the kentry? Yep. Five minutes after somebody in New York says it, somebody in San Francisco will know what he said. I misbelieve that'll ever be; don't see how it can be. But when the buffalo go, an' they's sure to go, they'll be lots of things. All the gold they found in Californy won't be a acorn's wuth to what will be found. I don't mean gold, nuther. They's ore beds in the west for the whole kentry ten times over. They's farm land thick with wild grass, an' that'll grow crops jest as good. They's a galore of timber, enough to make all the cities an' towns what'll ever need be made. The emmy-grants who've gone ain't made a dent in the west. Some day Oregon alone will have twicet as many emmy-grants as have been over the Trail in the past ten years, an' they'll be room for 'em. They'll be cities on the west coast to shade anything what's on the east." He became wistful. "The west will be tamed, but I'm right glad I ain't goin' to live to see it all tamed. I wouldn't like that a'tall."

That night Joe went happily to bed, for Snedeker's discourse had been a great comfort to him. He had left Missouri because he needed room and opportunity for his children, and he was getting into the west while there was still plenty of both. When the millions came, providing they came at all in his time, he would be too old to care and the children would be young enough to adjust.

Rising in a cloudless sky, next morning's sun brought little warmth. Overnight the weather had turned very cold, so that a thick glazing of frost lay on the windows. Since there was a great pile of logs at the building site, and no special hurry about getting any more, today Joe and Ellis were to see if they could find some buffalo. By all means they were to bring in something, for meat stocks at the post were low. If they couldn't find buffalo, they were to try for elk or deer. Should they discover a herd of buffalo, they were to shoot as many as possible. Though there was a limit to the meat that could be used, Snedeker could hire squaws to cure the hides. There was a steady market for buffalo robes in the east, but it was not necessary to send them east in order to realize a good profit. Oregon-bound emigrants would pay four dollars each for buffalo robes right at the post.

Ellis rode his horse, Joe mounted the mare mule, and each man carried a rifle. Without speaking they mounted the ridge behind the post and went into pine forest. A deer flitted among the trees and Joe raised his rifle. But the deer was gone before he could get a shot.

"Let's try for buffalo first," Ellis suggested. "We can always pick up something else if we don't find any."

"All right with me. Have you hunted buffalo?"

"Yes. There are meadows back here where we'll find them if there are any around. They stay there because of good grass and it's out of the wind. If we find a herd, take those on the outside first."

A little while later Ellis held up his hand because it would be unwise to speak, dismounted, and tied his horse to a tree. Joe slid off the mule and tied her. He followed Ellis through the pines and looked down on an open meadow.

Sixteen buffaloes moved sluggishly about while they scraped for grass with ponderous hoofs. Ellis Garner's rifle came up as easily as though it were an extension of his own arm. He sighed, shot, and a buffalo dropped heavily. Ellis indicated another cow that stood on the fringe of the herd and reloaded.

They shot six before the rest scented blood and pounded clumsily away in a cloud of flying snow. Ellis watched the fleeing herd until it was out of sight. Joe warmed to him. Whatever Ellis might be, he was no deliberate killer. He had shot buffalo because it was part of his job, not because he loved to shoot. Joe suspected that a flying buck or lurking elk would have been game much more to his liking.

Ellis asked, "Want to bring a sled up while I skin these? If we both leave, they'll be nothing but wolf bait."

"I'll help you."

"It's no job. You just slit them up the belly and around the legs, cut a slot for a rope, and let your horse pull the skin off. I'll be done by the time you're back."

Joe said, "Tad shot a buffalo on the way to Laramie and it took us a long while to skin it. Where'd you learn this trick?"

"Jim taught me."

Joe rode the mare mule back to the post, harnessed the team and hitched them to one of Snedeker's bobsleds. He followed the tracks they'd made going in and saw the six buffalo carcasses, rawly naked already freezing. Ellis was walking about, beating his hands together to warm them.

"Better take some of the humps," he said. "It's one of the best parts."

Joe scratched his head. "I heard that too, but I couldn't even cut it out."

"I'll show you."

There was a ridge of bone over the hump, but it did not go clear through. Ellis inserted his knife, cut deftly, and lifted out a three-pound chunk of meat. Under Ellis's direction, Joe did the next one. They took the humps, the livers, half a dozen hind quarters, the loins and the tongues, and laid them on the fresh hides.

While they loaded the meat on the bobsleds, Joe was silent, preoccupied by his confused feelings about Ellis. The young man was undoubtedly a hard worker when he wanted to be, and he was friendly and respectful—when he wanted to be. But always Ellis gave you the feeling he was going to do exactly what he wanted, and if that thing happened to be unfriendly, why that was the time for a person to watch out. He had an impulsive way of speaking and acting. Ten to one he'd tell you just what he thought about something, even if the telling might cause some folks real embarrassment. That was honesty, of a kind, but it could be cruelty, too, and Joe wasn't exactly sure which it was in the case of Ellis. As for Barbara, Ellis seemed smitten, sure enough, but would he be respectful and take good care of her on the jaunt to Laramie? Emma seemed confident, but Joe was deeply uncertain, and the uncertainty made him grim and silent as they loaded the last of the meat.

The next day they cut wood, and Joe glanced questioningly at the sky. The sun still shone, but there was something in the air that Joe could not analyze. It was a faint but startling thing, like the sudden rustle of a leaf when there is no wind, and it seemed to grow stronger as day followed day. But there was only an uneasy feeling and nothing tangible to furnish evidence that something grim and terrible did lurk behind the sun.

On the last day of the year, the rest of the Towers watched Ellis, riding his horse, and Barbara, mounted on one of Snedeker's with her dancing dress carried in a pack behind the saddle, start down the Trail for the New Year's dance at Laramie.