The Mule pulled hard on the reins as she sought to reach a lush growth of grass near by. With a rough jerk Joe brought her back, and she stood meekly behind him. The mules could gauge his moods as exactly as he could theirs; they always know just how far they might go and when they'd better behave. The mule did not pull even hard enough to tighten the reins as she waited.

Barbara buried her tear-stained face in his shirt front and Joe held her fiercely close to him. Her body shook convulsively, and it seemed to Joe that every racking sob tore out of his throat too. He knew a moment of blank dismay because, though there were words that applied to the situation, he could not think of them. He did think of a doe whose hip had been shattered by a rifle ball, and he had a wild notion that there was some comparison between the stricken doe and his stricken child. Nobody had been able to do anything for the deer, either. Joe said,

"Don't cry, Bobby! Please don't cry!"

"It—it was awful!"

"I know, but would you want Clover to suffer? Pete did the right thing. If I'd have been here, I'd have done it myself."

Panting hard, Tad's dog came around a corner of the house and threw himself down in the shade. Tad followed, whittling on a stick with his knife and kicking at the shavings as they fell. He looked at his sobbing sister in her father's arms and scornfully expressed what he felt was a distinct superiority of all male creatures over all female.

"Huh! Cryin' about an old cow!"

Joe felt an immediate relief. He did not know how to comfort a broken-hearted girl, but at this moment he did know what to do about this freckle-faced son of his. He was relieved because Tad had provided him with an outlet for his pent-up feelings.

"Will you get out of here," he roared, "before I cut a hickory switch and use it to tan your ornery hide!"

Tad said, "I ain't doin' anything."

"You're walking around with a knife in your hand for one thing! For another you're getting too big for your britches! Now beat it, and if I catch you using a knife that way again I'll take it away from you until you show some sense!"

Head up, shoulders squared, Tad walked back around the house and Mike rose to follow him. Joe gulped, penitent because he had spoken harshly to Tad. But in some fashion that he did not understand the spell was broken and Barbara's near hysteria was no more. She pushed herself away from him, wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, and smiled tremulously. Joe had a sudden inspiration.

"Look, honey, go tell your mother that I have some things to say to her as soon as I've put the mule away. You might wait for me too. It's sort of a family matter."

For a second she said nothing and Joe had a momentary little panic because he thought she was going to start crying again. Instead, she repeated her smile.

"I'll tell her, Daddy."

She walked away and Joe was happy again. His master coup had been effective, and by sending Barbara to Emma he had at least taken her mind from Clover's tragedy. Barbara made pets of all the farm animals, and hers was a deep sensitivity. She could bear to see nothing she liked hurt. At pig-killing time, which was always in the fall, she made an excuse to visit her bosom friend, Marcia Geragty, and invariably she stayed away until everything was over. Though she was a willing and hard worker, nobody could count on her to help at the butchering—naturally the men always did the slaughtering—and sometimes Joe worried about her because obviously Barbara was destined to be a farmer's wife. As such, she would have to know a farm wife's tasks and taking care of meat was one of them. Joe knew another period of doubt and indecision.

Above all, he wanted for his children more and better opportunities than he had ever known. But, though Tad would be wild with joy at the very thought, was the west really a place for Barbara? She had grown up here; all her friends were here. Was it right to uproot her, to tear her away from everything she knew and loved? And—Joe still thought of her as very fragile—could she bear up under the hardships of such a long journey? Would the west offer her anything to compensate for what she would lose by leaving Missouri? Joe comforted himself with the thought that Barbara had a mind of her own. She could be counted on to express her sincere convictions at the forthcoming family conference.

Joe wrinkled his brow. He'd had his setbacks, but none comparable to the recent disasters. A whole crop ruined and a valuable cow lost. It seemed that the land over which he had labored so hard had rejected him completely. He knew a sudden wild urge to be away, to start immediately for Oregon where a man was his own master. Joe led the mule around a corner of the house and saw Tad leaning against the building.

Joe stopped and said gruffly, "Sorry I yelled, Tad."

Tad shrugged. "Clover's leg was broke. I saw it myself. What could you do except shoot her?"

"Nothing," Joe admitted, "but womenfolk don't—"

"Don't what?" Tad asked.

"They don't understand some things."

It was a lame explanation and one which, Joe felt, did not suffice. Women understood most things, and Joe knew of men who had died in agony while other men stood uncaringly near. That being the way things were sometimes, there was something mighty wholesome about anyone at all who could shed genuine tears over a dead cow. But Joe could think of nothing else to say.

Tad asked too casually, "What'd you find out this morning, Pa?"

Without answering immediately, Joe put the mule in the pasture, slipped her bridle off, and closed the gate. As far as he knew, none of the children even suspected that he and Emma were planning to go west. But Tad had a way of finding out much that he was not supposed to know; perhaps he had been lying awake, listening, the night Joe returned from Tenney's and talked with Emma. He turned to Tad and said,

"You come along and see."

The youngest children met him at the door, and Joe's heart lightened. The mysterious fevers attacked baby Emma without any warning at all. But they left her just as quickly and obviously she was well again. Joe knew that the youngsters wanted to play with him, but he felt that it was not a moment for play. They were on the verge of a profound uprooting that would affect the lives of all.

Barbara sat gracefully on a chair. Emma leaned against the sink, and Tad slipped unobtrusively past to make himself small in one corner. Joe glanced at the youngster and saw his eyes glowing and his face wild with excitement. He cleared his throat and wished desperately that he was a master of story-telling so that he might give his expectant family an exact word picture.

"I saw Grandpa Seeley at Hammerstown," he began. "He's an old man who's spent most of his life in the west and...."

In simple, unembellished language, he told them. He spoke of Oregon, where any family could live and live well on a quarter section of land that was free for the taking. He told of the Oregon Trail, which they would reach at Independence. The chances were good that they'd be traveling all alone, for most of the Oregon-bound emigrants started in May, and they might be very lonely. Mules were the best wagon beasts, but they really should have a spare team or at least a spare animal. They should take as much food as possible and that meant that most of their household goods must be left behind. However, selling whatever they could not take along would provide necessary funds. Even though they took much food, they would have to depend on hunting for their meat. However, they would find buffalo and probably other game animals. The chances were good that Indians would not be a menace.

Joe told it honestly, adding nothing and holding nothing back. He looked at Emma, who stood white-faced and calm, her back against the wall; at Barbara, sitting dreamily with her chin in her hand; at Tad, fairly vibrating with excitement. The younger children, even Alfred who seldom sat still, seemed to have partaken of the solemnity of the moment and were listening intently. Joe ran a hand through his shaggy hair.

"Well, that's it. That's the story and it sounded to me like a straight one. I've told you everything I know."

"O'gon," Carlyle piped in his baby treble. "We go O'gon."

A moment's silence reigned.

Emma clasped her hands nervously in front of her, and then disengaged them with an effort. "Was Mr. Seeley sure that we can reach Laramie before winter closes in?"

"He said that we could do it with time to spare. We might even make Fort Bridger if we're lucky."

Again her hands came together and held, her knuckles white. "Did he say anything about the quarters we'll find there? I—I should not like to live in an Indian tent in winter."

Joe smiled. "You wouldn't have to. Laramie's an Army post, but we won't stay there. Just west of Laramie there's a trading post run by a man named Snedeker. I can get a job with him for the winter."

"We can't possibly carry enough of everything to see us through. Are there places along the way where we might buy new provisions?"

Joe said soberly, "Not too many. But we will be able to stock up if we have to."

"Was—was he sure there'll be no Indian trouble?"

There were frequent occasions when Joe and Emma had the same thought at the same time, and Joe had a fleeting, terrible vision of his babies' fluffy hair adorning the smoky lodge of some fierce warrior prince. He hesitated before replying, then,

"He said we'd have no trouble if we don't bother the Indians and don't let them bother us." A deepening silence filled the room at the mention of Indians.

Then there was a knock at the door, and Joe opened it to face Elias Dorrance. Elias' horse was rein-haltered near by, and the banker said affably,

"Hi, Joe."

"Hi. Uh—come in."

The banker entered and bowed in turn to Emma and Barbara. "Mrs. Tower. Miss Tower." His glance encompassed the children and he turned to Joe. "I wondered if you've changed your mind?"

Joe squirmed inwardly, but at the same time he knew a small gratification. It was part of etiquette to offer any visitor a meal, but it was absolutely imperative to do so only if they came at meal time. Because his family was present, Joe controlled his anger. He said,

"No. No, I haven't."

"I see." Elias remained gracious. "I was merely riding past and thought this a good opportunity to see you. Well, I must be running along and it's good to see your charming family. If you care to talk with me, you have only to come to my office."

Elias bowed again and departed. Joe resisted an impulse to assist him out of the door with the toe of his shoe. Elias was not simply passing by. He had ridden out to see if there was any way he could get a mortgage on everything the Towers had left. Joe felt a cold and clammy thing that was not physical or born of any solid substance, brush his heart. He turned to see Emma staring fixedly at the four youngest children. Her glance roved to Barbara and Tad. Then her eyes met his squarely. The color that had left her cheeks came back to them now in a rush.

"Joe, I think it's time we told the children we're going to Oregon!"

"Hi-eee!" Tad shrieked.

Emma cast a reproving glance at him and Tad quieted. But his eyes danced and a beatific smile lighted his whole face.

"O'gon," Carlyle said again. "We go O'gon."

"It's Oregon, isn't it, mama?" little Emma corrected.

Emma said, heaving a deep and tremulous sigh, "Yes, dear, it's Oregon."

"I think," Barbara said, "that it's going to be just wonderful!"

Joe turned to look at her, startled because there was a quality in her voice that had never been present before. She spoke like an adult, but her eyes were wide with excitement and her cheeks were flushed. Joe shook his head. He had thought that, of all the family, Barbara might shrink from such a trip and all it involved. Joe said,

"Bobby, you really want to go!"

But Barbara was already lost in a dream and Emma answered for her daughter, "Of course she wants to go."

Joe glanced at his wife, sensing another feminine puzzle here which no man would ever figure out. He understood Tad's bubbling excitement at the prospect of new horizons and new adventure, but Tad was a boy and such a reaction was natural. He did not completely grasp, as Emma did, that Barbara was youth too. Youth was for daring, and exploring, and the farthest point on the horizon would always be alluring. Joe grinned at his youngest children.

"Any of you got anything to say?"

Little Joe asked, "How far is Oregon?"

"Quite a piece, Joe."

"Oh." The youngster devoted himself seriously to thinking about this new problem that had arisen.

The relief that Joe felt at the way his children had taken the news expressed itself in a minor outburst. Joe said, "Doggone it!"

Emma said, "Is something wrong?"

"I must have been in quite a fluster when I got here. Left the mare mule's bridle lying on the ground. I'd better go pick it up."

Tad said happily, "I'll go with you, Pa."

They left the house together and Joe felt strangely light, almost giddy, as he walked across the familiar yard. It was impossible to go to Oregon, but they were going. Joe grinned. There had been a great decision and a small one; they were going to Oregon and he must pick up a mule bridle.

"When we startin', Pa?" Tad breathed.

"Soon's we can get ready."

"Can Mike go too?"

"He can if he wants to walk all the way."

Tad breathed, "I'm goin' to walk, too! Can I shoot a buffalo, Pa? Can I?"

Joe said good humoredly, "For pete's sake, we're not out of Missouri yet—we haven't even started—and you talk of buffalo! Can't you wait until we see some?"

"Do you think we'll have Indian fights, Pa?" Tad asked breathlessly.

"We won't if I can help it." Joe was suddenly sober. "Tad, you and I have to be the men on this trip. You know that?"

"I know it, Pa! I know it and I'll do everything I can to help! Honest! Can I go tell Buster Trevelyan?"

"Sure."

With a wild whoop, Mike racing beside him, Tad was away. Joe picked up the mule bridle and glanced at the mules. They were standing together, nibbling each other with their lips. The mules usually quarreled over which was going to get the most of the choicest food, but they were genuinely fond of each other and Joe supposed that was a good thing too. Mules, hybrids that had no future because they were incapable of reproducing their own kind, must feel desperately frustrated at times.

A meadow lark sang from the top of the fence and Joe answered it, imitating almost perfectly the bird's sweet call. The meadow lark called again and Joe talked back to it. He wondered if there would be meadow larks in Oregon and hoped wistfully that he would find them there for they were a totem bird, a symbol of good luck. Nothing could be too bad as long as there was a meadow lark about. Joe had always fought against killing them for any reason, though now and again some of his neighbors shot or snared some to eat.

Joe answered a bobwhite that called from a corner of brush, and a red-winged blackbird that perched on a swaying reed down near the creek. He had always cherished a secret desire to play a fiddle, or almost any kind of musical instrument, but he'd never been able to do it. His one talent, besides farming, was imitating bird calls and he enjoyed himself with those. Yancey Garrow, who could play the fiddle, had even said he'd trade that for Joe's ability.

A pang assailed Joe when he looked again at his raided fields, but it was the ache any good farmer would feel when good crops are destroyed. He no longer felt completely in tune with these fields; they'd lost their power to hold him and make him do their bidding. Joe's thoughts remained on Oregon, and the constant urge to be doing something must be devoted to making that trip a success.

He took the bridle to the barn and carefully hung it on its proper peg. When his eyes strayed over the harness, which was kept in the barn except when the mules were working every day, he noted a frayed tug strap and knew that he would have to replace or repair it before they started. There'd be few leather shops on the Oregon Trail and they'd be far apart. Because it was part of his nature to want everything the way it should be, he cleaned accumulated litter out of the mules' stalls. All summer long, night and day, the mules were in the pasture, and it never occurred to Joe that he'd done a useless bit of work because the mules wouldn't be in their stalls this winter.

The younger children were playing in the yard, and Joe entered the house to find Emma alone. Lost in thought, she was standing at the stove, touching it here and there as though to memorize the feeling of it. She swung around guiltily when she heard Joe behind her.

"You gave me a start," she said.

"You won't like leaving the stove behind?"

"It's a good stove," she said defiantly. "But my grandmother didn't have one, and she got along just fine. I guess I can, too."

Joe sighed, and his eyes moved around the room to other things that would be left behind.

Seeing him Emma stamped her foot. "One thing I know, Joe Tower. I'm not going to eat myself up regretting all the things we can't take with us. Those are things, not people. The people we love best, our own children, are going to be right with us. So let's not get all in a fuss about any old stove."

He chuckled. Then, seeing the slight quiver of her lips, he spoke softly. "But also let's not do too much pretending that things don't bother us when they really do. It's a good stove, and you'll miss it."

Her throat worked for a moment, then hastily she changed the subject. "About the cow, Joe—I'm grateful to you for making it easy for Barbara."

He said with honest surprise, "I made it easy for her?"

"She saved her tears for you, didn't she?"

"Yes. But—"

She said quietly, "One of the reasons I love you so much is because you really don't know why a little girl would rather cry on your shoulder." She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "Pete butchered the cow properly."

Joe said, "Well, it will be a lot of jerky and pickled beef to take along."

She smiled tearfully at him. "Who in this family would eat Clover, Joe? I asked Pete to take the beef down and sell it to Lester Tenney. We can use more money, now that we're Oregon-bound."

Joe scratched his head. "Guess you're right. I couldn't enjoy the beef myself and we do need money." Money. And provisions. A barrel of corn meal, Seeley had said. All the eatables they could carry.

"There's a lot of planning to do," he said to Emma.

"A lot of planning," she echoed, nodding, with an effort at crisp composure.

Go to Independence, Grandpa Seeley had told him. Get on the Oregon Trail and use common sense. It had all seemed so simple, but there was more to it than that. For instance, though they probably could camp beside the wagon much of the time, suppose there were stormy nights and they had to sleep inside? Provision would have to be made for it. The wagon itself would have to receive a thorough checking, with faulty parts replaced. The box would almost surely have to be built higher, and a canvas cover fitted tightly. Every item that went along, from the smallest to the largest, would have to have its own place. All of it had to be planned, and Joe had planned none of it.

Barbara came out of the room she shared with little Emma and Joe's spirits rose. At the same time, he was puzzled and slightly amused. Only a short time ago he had held Barbara in his arms, completely crushed and wilted. Now there was no trace of that, but only the sheer loveliness, intensified by excitement, that almost always walked with this girl and that imparted itself to whatever or whomever she encountered. She smiled.

"Why don't you go fishing and do your pondering, Daddy? You won't be working the fields this afternoon."

Joe looked gratefully at her. All women seemed to know all men better than any man understood any one woman. Emma knew that he needed solitude sometimes for thinking about his problems. Like her mother, Barbara seemed to know it too.

"Now say," Joe said, "I might just do that."

Not for a long while had he taken the time to go fishing, though he had often wished mightily that he could go. When he fished, he knew a serenity of soul and peace of mind that he found in doing nothing else, and it made no difference whether or not he caught anything. The mind of a true fisherman is not on petty subjects, and suddenly Joe knew that he must go.

"Hurry up, Pa!" Tad called in the door. "I've got the worms all dug and the poles all ready."

"I thought you'd gone to see Buster Trevelyan?"

"I did see him. He helped me dig worms."

Joe felt that somehow he must be a very shallow and easily led person. His daughter had suggested that he go fishing. His wife had told him the same thing, though she had not needed to speak. Now his son appeared with fishing tackle and bait. Joe hesitated, and Emma urged,

"Go ahead. You won't get any work done today anyhow and fishing will be good for you."

"Well, we might get a mess of fish."

He left the house, followed by the jubilant Tad, who had two poles with lines, floats, and hooks attached to them slung over his shoulder and a hollow branch containing worms in his hand. Mike tagged amiably along, bristled hopefully when a neighbor's dog crossed Pete Domley's pasture, and relaxed sadly when the dog kept on going. Mike didn't care what he fought, or where or when, as long as he could fight, and Joe looked at his son's dog with a new eye. Mike had never been an asset on the farm, but he might be one on the Oregon Trail.

Tad led the way to a long, still pool bordered by sycamores and willows. Joe took his pole, baited, cast, and watched his bobber float with the gentle current. He eyed a school of minnows that were swimming in the shoals and looked again at his bobber. The minnows in the shallow edges of the pool were quiet, therefore nothing had been chasing them for a while and it was Joe's guess that the fish wouldn't bite well today. If the bass were feeding, the minnows would be more nervous and alert. Joe asked his son a question that had been on his mind.

"How'd you know I'd go fishing this afternoon?"

"If we're goin' to Oregon, you sure wouldn't be workin' the fields."

"Is that the only reason you knew?"

"Nope. I just kind of thought it was a day for you and me to go fishin'."

"Did your mother or sister tell you to get the worms and tackle?"

Tad said indignantly, "Now, Pa, you know they wouldn't be tellin' me to take you fishin'!"

Joe knew that he was not telling the truth, and that Emma must have told him to dig worms and arrange fishing tackle, and for a moment he felt a slight annoyance. Then he relented. If anyone told the strict truth all the time, Joe felt, they'd be very hard to live with. Tad's was a harmless deception. The worst the youngster had in him was a streak of wildness, and he'd outgrow that. The Oregon Trail, Joe reflected, might take some of it out of him.

Joe relaxed on the stream bank, giving himself completely to thoughts of this new venture and at peace with himself and the world. In his wood lot were both hickory and oak that he had felled last year and left to season. For a share of the timber, John Geragty would work it into proper sizes at his saw mill. Maybe it would be a good idea to carry a spare reach for the wagon and spare axles. They could always be slung underneath without adding too much to the load. Since they couldn't take everything with them—or nearly everything—they would have a lot to sell or trade. The kitchen stove for one thing. He swallowed a lump when he thought of Emma standing at the stove, touching it lightly with her fingertips. Then he made himself go on with his planning. The planning, right now, was a whole lot more necessary than the stove. They would have to sell the stove. Stoves were none too plentiful in this country and lots of farm wives cooked over fireplaces. The stove should get them a new wagon cover, which Les Tenney carried in stock, and something else besides. Now—

Tad yelled, "Pa! Your line!"

Joe awakened with a start to see his bobber gone down and his line moving slowly out into the stream. He yanked on the pole, lifted a two-pound bass clear of the water, and brought it, flopping, to the grass beside him. Mike, who had been asleep in the grass, awakened with a throaty bark and came over to inspect the catch. Joe shoved him aside, and Tad said approvingly,

"Gee! That's a nice one!"

"It's not too bad," Joe agreed. "Mike, get away!"

He slid the bass onto a willow stringer that Tad cut and put it back in the water, weighting one end of the stringer with a rock. Then he gave all his attention to fishing. While he had been thinking of Oregon, the bass must have started feeding for the minnows were more alert now. Even as Joe watched, a school of them darted this way and that while something dark and sullen lunged among them.

Two minutes later Joe caught another bass, and before the sun started to set, he and Tad had fourteen. Joe borrowed Tad's knife, which was always razor-sharp, and knelt beside their catch.

"I'll show you a trick," he promised.

He scaled the fish, removed their heads and fins, and made a clean cut down the back. Deftly, needing only a moment, he worked the flesh away and left the bones. Tad knelt near by, watching and admiring every move, and Joe said patiently,

"Move a little away, will you? I'd sure hate to slice you up along with these fish."

Tad grinned and moved a couple of inches back. Joe worked on. When he was done he had only boneless fish, with all the offal left behind, and there had been no waste of anything. Joe smacked his lips.

"You cook something out of a fish when you cook the bones into it," he said. "Wait'll you try these."

"Maybe Mom will fix them tonight, huh?"

"Could be. Let's go find out."

Pete Domley's white horse was tied outside the door, and Pete came from the house to meet them. Joe handed the filleted fish, which he was carrying on a slab of wood, to Tad.

"Take these to your mother, will you? She'll want them soon if we're going to have them for supper."

Pete Domley glanced down at the pile of fish and sniffed hungrily. "They look downright good. It's a long while since I've had time to get any for myself."

"Maybe you'll stay and help us eat these?" Joe invited. "There's plenty."

Pete grinned. "I might just do that. Sorry about the cow. She stepped in a chuck hole and broke a front leg. There just wasn't anything else to do."

"I know. Thanks for taking care of it, Pete."

"Emma said to sell the beef to Les."

"Yeah, and I reckon she's right. Nobody here would eat it."

"Les gave me twenty-three dollars and seventy cents, cash money. I gave it all to Emma."

"You should have kept something for your trouble."

"It wasn't any trouble. Emma says you're going to Oregon?"

"That's right, Pete. We are."

Pete said seriously, "I don't know but what it would be a good move for anybody. Yes, I'm sure it would be."

"Why don't you come along?"

"I probably would, if I was fifteen years younger. But I'm pushing fifty, and I've chased a lot of will-o'-the-wisps in my day. Guess I'm getting chicken-hearted."

"Oregon's no will-o'-the-wisp."

"I know, but by the time a man gets to be my age he thinks everything is. I stick to what I know, and I can't make out any place unless I think so. I don't think I'd make out in Oregon. Want to sell me your standing hay?"

"I'll give it to you."

"Don't be so open-hearted; you're going to Oregon and you'll need money. Besides, I winter a lot of stock and hay's worth money to me. Would twenty-five dollars be right?"

"Right enough with me."

"Good. I'll cut the hay when it's ready for cutting. I swear, Joe, you look like a kid again."

"I almost feel like one, Pete. Doggone, it's not that I don't like Missouri. It's just that I sort of felt myself batting my head against a brick wall here, and now we're going to Oregon."

Pete nodded wisely. "The world would be just as well off if all men hit down a new road when the old one ends blind. Only most of us lack the courage to get off paths we know. Especially when we're older. I envy you."

"Don't be so darn philosophical, Pete. Come on. Let's go in and wait for something to eat."

Pete Domley finished his meal and rode away. A great restlessness gnawed at Joe, and he felt his usual imperative urge to be doing something. Only now it was a happy anticipation, and not a frustrating tenseness. Joe glanced at the lowering sun, decided that at least an hour of daylight remained, and a moment later Tad joined him.

"Hey, Pa, let's be doin' somethin'. Huh?"

"Sure. Let's bring some of that oak and hickory in from the wood lot."

Joe was amazed. Ordinarily Tad could be forced to work only under threat of immediate punishment. Even then, unless he liked it, he would not keep at whatever task was assigned him unless he were watched every second. That he should offer of his own free will to help was itself a minor revolution, and proof that he was infected with what Joe was beginning to think of as Oregon fever.

They caught and harnessed the mules. Joe shouldered a peavey—a logger's hook—and let Tad drive the mules to the wood lot. Joe used his peavey to roll half a dozen of the seasoned oak and hickory logs over a long chain, bound the chain around them, and hitched the mules to it. In the gathering twilight, Joe and his son walked side by side while the mules dragged the logs back to the house. They unharnessed the mules and let them frolic in their pasture.

The logs lay ready to be taken to John Geragty's saw mill. Joe gave them one final glance. When they were sawed into boards he would use part of them himself. Part John Geragty would take as pay for his labor, and the rest would be sold or traded for all the things they needed and did not have for their trip to Oregon. It was the first short step.

Joe felt a surging, happy restlessness, but he had no wish to go to the store. It seemed as though, somehow, his family had become a unique group that had nothing to do with anybody else and were no part of anyone else. They were going to Oregon while all the rest were staying here, and that set them apart. Joe wanted to stay with them because of this new-found and delightful kinship with each other.

He watched Barbara and Emma folding Emma's wedding dress, a long white, frilly thing, between clean curtains. Obviously the dress was destined to be part of the contents of a trunk that yawned on the kitchen floor. Joe got up to lend a hand; the dress could be folded much more compactly and thus occupy less space.

"Now you just sit down," Emma ordered. "This is not a mule or an ax."

"I was just trying to help."

"Not with this." The glance she gave him was one of mingled tenderness and amusement.

Tad sat at the table, working expertly with a whetstone as he put a razor edge back on his knife. Carlyle, still so young that the use of his legs was new to him, wobbled precariously across the floor and grasped Joe's knee. He paused, his fascinated eyes riveted on something, and when Joe looked he saw a fish scale that clung to his trousers and reflected rainbow tints in the lamp light. Joe lifted the youngster into his lap, and Carlyle bent over so he could continue to watch the fish scale.

"Come on," Joe invited the other. "I know a story."

His little fist closed, Alfred came to stand before Joe. The youngster's eyes danced, a grin parted his lips.

"Present for you," he said, extending his closed fist.

Joe reached to take it, but when Alfred opened his fist there was nothing at all there and the child howled with glee. Joe looked intently at his hand, and he pretended to slip the gift into his pocket.

"Thanks," he said seriously, "that's just about the nicest present I ever had!"

Alfred looked puzzled. Dainty little Emma and sober Joe came to him, and Joe gathered all of them into his lap.

"Went fishing today," he said, "and the first thing you know there was an old man with long white whiskers standing right on the bottom of the creek...."

He improvised as his story unfolded, telling how the old man's white whiskers hid an enormous mouth into which fish swam. Every now and again, probably because he was angry, he spit a fish at Joe or Tad. Baby Emma looked suspiciously at him and Tad turned with a knowing grin, but all remained interested. Finally the biggest fish of all came along and had trouble getting into the old man's mouth. There, and at once, he grew half again as big. When the old man tried to spit that fish he couldn't; he could get only half of it out of his mouth. Neither could he take it all the way in. The last Joe saw of him he was walking up the bottom of the creek with the fish still half in and half out of his mouth.

Carlyle went to sleep in his arms and little Emma rested contentedly against his shoulder. Little Joe frowned while he considered this new problem, a fish stuck in an old man's mouth, and Alfred yawned. Emma came to clasp baby Emma gently to her and she put the child to bed. One by one, Barbara took the rest.

Joe sat nervously in his chair, too tense to sleep and not knowing what to do. The night-to-be seemed an interminable time, and morning would never come. Joe thought of a hundred things he must do and he ached to be doing them so they could start for Oregon.

"You better go to bed," Emma told him.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Neither can you stay awake until we start for Oregon." She came to his side and ran her hand through his hair, thinking, He is part boy, part man. Like a boy, he can't wait to start. Like a man—like Joe, she corrected herself, he wants to make everything double-safe for his young ones. Only, can he make things safe? Is there any safety in the wilderness?

Her hand stilled, then resolutely took up its stroking again. "Tomorrow's another day," she said.

Joe grinned. "Could be you're right. I'll turn in."

He was awake with earliest daylight, and lay staring at the thin dawn that lurked behind curtain-draped windows. It was a happy awakening, and the day held more true promise than any Joe could remember. He had, he felt as he lay beside Emma, been born all over again. But he had hurdled childhood and been born as a wholly new kind of man with nothing mean or petty in his life. Emma stirred beside him and Joe's hand stole out to clasp hers. For a moment they lay side by side, anticipating events-to-be by living their greatest adventure in their minds.

After breakfast Joe and Tad skidded more seasoned oak and hickory logs in from the wood lot. He took the box from his wagon and drove the stripped-down wagon up beside the logs. Loading them was really a two-man job, but one man could do it.

Joe slanted and braced two short logs against the wagon and used his peavey to roll one of the heavier logs toward them. He rolled one end a short way up one of the leaning logs and braced it with a chunk of wood. Going to the other end, he rolled that up and blocked it. By alternating ends, and rolling each a short way at a time, he finally loaded the log onto the wagon. Tad stood impatiently near.

"I'll help you, Pa."

Joe shook his head. "Not with this."

"Aw, I can handle a peavey."

"Nope. If one of those logs rolled on you, there wouldn't be enough left to scrape up."

"Let me help!"

Joe said patiently, "You watch and see how it's done. Maybe the next time you can help."

Tad squatted on his heels and watched, sulking. Joe loaded the wagon, chained the load, and climbed on top of it to drive through Tenney's Crossing to John Geragty's saw mill. There was plenty of timber to be had for the taking, but never a surplus of seasoned oak and hickory. John would have no trouble selling it for a good price, and therefore he would take his pay for sawing in lumber instead of money. Joe drove up to the saw mill, and John Geragty came to meet him.

"Hear you're goin' to Oregon," he greeted.

"You hear right, John. Who told you?"

"Everybody knows it by this time. The Crossin' hasn't had this kind of news to chew on since Casey McManus was lynched."

"Hope the chewing's good," Joe grinned. "Got some seasoned oak and hickory. Want to work it up for me?"

"What do you need?"

"Boards for a wagon box and a new reach and axles. Wouldn't do any harm to have an extra tongue, too."

"Cash deal?"

"Share."

"I don't know," the other said doubtfully. "You want to buy the metal for your axles?"

"Sure."

"Then it's a deal. We'll split the timber half and half. If you don't need all yours, I'll sell it for you. Bill Logan's buildin' a new barn and he wants good lumber."

"Good enough."

Joe drove home with his empty wagon, and the mules pricked their long ears forward when they came in sight of the pasture. Two saddle horses were tied to the fence, and Joe recognized one of them as Percy Pearl's fine thoroughbred. The other was a blocky paint owned by Watson Charters, a quarrelsome man who was greatly impressed with his own importance. Largely because nobody else would take the job, which meant that they might have to embarrass their neighbors, Watson Charters was the local constable and he did a great deal of work for Elias Dorrance. Charters came forward to meet Joe, closely followed by Percy Pearl. Joe jumped down from the wagon.

Charters produced a penciled document, obviously one he had written himself, from his pocket and began to read it:

"I hereby restrict and enjoin you, under clause A, article 13, of the laws of the State of Missouri, from removing from this property, or causing anyone else to remove from this property, any grasses, crops, or other article that takes root from the ground. I—"

"Wait a minute," Percy Pearl interrupted blandly. "I didn't understand. Read it again, Watson."

The constable looked annoyed, but started reading, "I hereby restrict and enjoin you, under clause A—"

"Now isn't that something?" Percy said admiringly. "He wrote it all by himself, too. Reminds me of some of the literary masterpieces I myself created when I was a student in the sixth form at Carrodale. Only Watson's is sheer genius. 'Grasses, crops, or other article that takes root from the ground.' Banishes immediately any lingering doubts one might have that they're rooted in the air. Who besides Watson would have thought of such a thing?"

Watson Charters said, "You'll have to be quiet, Percy."

"No, I won't have to be quiet. Article 1, Bill of Rights, the Constitution of the United States. That's an interesting document, too, in its own little way. Of course there's no comparison between that and yours."

"I am here," Watson Charters said, "to—"

"Yes, Joe," Percy said piously. "We are both here to see that justice is not made to grovel in the muck. Justice! May it ever be supreme! Watson is here to inform you that you cannot sell your standing hay to Pete Domley or take any more timber from your wood lot. The reason? Our friend Elias wishes to sell it himself."

"It's not his!" Joe roared. "Darn his picture! I cut that wood myself and Elias hasn't any right to the hay!"

"Sell that hay or take any more wood," Watson Charters said, "and I'll jail you."

Percy Pearl's hand moved as smoothly as a bit of rustling silk. Seemingly plucked from nowhere, a pistol appeared in it. The pistol blasted. As though it were blown by the wind, Watson Charters' hat lifted from his head and spiraled to the ground, a hole in its brim. Percy Pearl remained unruffled.

"How clumsy," he murmured. "But I still don't understand you, Watson. What are you going to do if Joe sells more wood or the hay?"

"Now look, Percy, I'm just—"

"I know," Percy soothed, "You are a selfless and devoted man who is just doing his duty with no thought of personal compensation, except maybe a third of whatever else Elias can steal from Joe. But what did you say you're going to do to Joe?"

There was a silence while the muscles worked in Watson's jaws. "I'm not goin' to do anything to him," he said gruffly. "Elias can handle this himself."

He mounted his blocky horse and rode away. Percy Pearl looked at Joe, and a delighted chuckle escaped him.