The Lost Wagon

by Jim Kjelgaard

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The River

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

  The change in terrain had been gradual. No one day, or even the wholetrip so far, had revealed any startling differences. The hills inMissouri were low and rolling and so was this country. But the Missourihills had been forested, and with very few exceptions the only treesthey'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 wholetrip, and get the over-all picture, to place them correctly. When onetraveled only twenty or thirty miles, each night's camp seemed much likethe one preceding it. But each had differed, and much more startlingthan any physical change in the country they'd traveled was the sense ofgoing a great distance.

  Tenney's Crossing had been warm and friendly, with neighbors always athand, and not until they reached Independence had they in any sense ofthe word felt alien. Going out of Independence, they'd passed homesteadsand settlements and felt at home there. But here there was only theprairie, a vast thing that stretched on all sides. They were all alone,wholly dependent on their own resources, and with no one else to whomthey 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 forsomething, 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 withoutfindin' any?"

  "I don't know."

  "How far are we from Oregon?"

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

  "Sure, Pa."

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

  Perhaps Jake Favors had been doing something besides trying to hire aman who knew mules when he advised them to winter in Independence, forthe Trail had been anything except easy. It was easy to stay on, ofcourse, for all one had to do was follow the Platte River and the tracksof 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 thegrass was cropped short by their animals and in some places it hadn'tgrown back. In all such places--the mules had to eat well if they wereto work hard--it had been necessary to swerve to one side and findgrazing. It wasn't always easy because others had the same idea andthat, Joe knew now, was one of the reasons why the Oregon Trail wasseveral miles wide in some places.

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

  Even for the first two weeks out of Laramie, Joe had not been able tocover his hoped-for thirty miles a day. They'd been delayed by thenecessity 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 cameawake with a start. As soon as he did so he knew that it was past thetime for getting up and that they were facing a storm.

  Heavy, black clouds covered the sky so deeply that the sun could find nocrack to break through. Emma had come from the wagon to join Joe and fora few seconds they had stood near each other while each gave comfort tothe other. They shared a weird and terrible feeling that they werereally lost on the endless prairie whose ceiling was now an even morefierce plain of clouds. Then they hurriedly started a fire and cookedbreakfast before the forthcoming rain made it impossible to do so.

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

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

  Worst of all, their provisions were running low. Grandpa Seeley hadadvised him to load the wagon heavily with food, and Joe had followedthe advice. Before leaving Independence he had bought more, but hisfamily had always had hearty appetites and travel stimulated them. Joehad shot a few jack rabbits, which even Mike found difficult to chew,and a few prairie chickens which were delicious. But, though jackrabbits were numerous, everybody else who came this way must have beenshooting prairie chickens, too. They were so wary that it was almostimpossible 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 campedone night almost in sight of last night's camp. Probably they traveledfarther than that, though Joe estimated that they hadn't covered morethan eight miles any day they'd been in the mud. He'd been able to buyalmost nothing at Fort Kearney; their commissary was low and the menthere were already on short rations. They'd told him he had enough tolast to Laramie, but they hadn't known about bad travel conditions.

  They filled the sack with buffalo chips, bent their heads against thecold north wind, and Joe quenched a rising uneasiness. Probably therewould be no very deep snow for several weeks. But any snow at all wouldbe sure to slow them up and they could afford no more delays. Thethought of his children going hungry clutched at him with an almostphysical pain. It was by no means certain that anyone else would comethis way before spring again made for good travel conditions, and evenif somebody did come the chances were good that they'd have nothing tospare. 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 andat least they'd be out of the mud tonight. The tethered mules and thecow we
re eagerly cropping grass. Emma's chickens, that had come toregard the wagon as their real home, were scratching vigorously in thedirt. With night, they would go into their crate to roost. Emma andBarbara, who had refashioned two of Joe's old pairs of trousers to fitthem--articles of clothing neither would have dreamed of wearing nearTenney's Crossing but which were practical here--were arranging theircook 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, andlighted it with a sulphur match that he took from a corked bottle. Theflames climbed hungrily through the grass and ate more slowly into thechips. Joe remembered the roaring wood fires they'd had back inMissouri, and he stirred uncomfortably. It was necessary to cross theseplains before they could go to Oregon, and there was nothing anyonecould do about them except cross. But Joe was just as happy that theywere not going to live here. Grandpa Seeley had known what he wastalking 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 themud can't last forever. Soon as we get out of it we can travel a lotfaster. Don't you worry."

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

  Tad, who had slipped away, darted back to the wagon. His eyes were bigwith 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 youngstersand 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. Heslipped down the other side, and Joe noted with pride that he walkedcarefully. He avoided rustling grass and stones, anything at all thatmight make a noise. Joe reflected that, one day, Tad would be awonderful hunter. Tad crawled up the opposite knoll as carefully as hehad 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. Nearingthe crest of the knoll, they wriggled on their bellies. With only theirheads showing, they looked down the other side of the knoll. Tadwhispered,

  "There they are!"

  The knoll sloped into a shallow gulley that was about three hundredyards long by two hundred wide. Joe saw the animals, a big buck withthree does, and though he himself had never before seen any, he knewfrom the descriptions of people who had been west that they werepronghorns, or antelope. His practiced hunter's eye told him that theywere already suspicious; they had either seen Tad or else they had seenJoe 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 ashe watched the antelope. By sheer force of will he yearned to draw themcloser. One of them, just one, and his family would have enough foodagain. One of the does slashed at another with an angry hoof, and theydrifted a little farther away. Joe began to worry. In another twentyminutes 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 theantelope. He must not miss. They had to have one of the antelope, andthe thought made him tense. Joe forced himself to relax so that he wouldbe able to shoot more truly. Minute by minute, the night shadowslowered. The rifle's sights were already beginning to blur when theantelope moved.

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

  Joe stood up, sweating, and it was as though a heavy weight was suddenlyupon his heart. He felt a little nauseated, and he wet dry lips with histongue. It seemed, somehow, that he was guilty of a terrible andunforgivable sin. But even while he berated himself, Joe knew pride whenTad appeared where he should have been. The youngster had done his partexactly right. It was no fault of his if the antelope had run exactlywrong.

  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, camerunning expectantly toward them.

  "Missed," Joe said, and he took refuge in Tad's alibi. "They weren'tvery big anyhow."

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

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

  "Doggone, I just don't feel hungry. If you'll put this away, it'll beall 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'sthe 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. Hecaught her in his arms and held her very close to him, and she leanedagainst him, tense and trembling, without making a sound. His armstightened 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 Iswear 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 gameyou'll have to."

  Barbara, who had been putting the younger children to bed, jumped fromthe 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 intothe 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 hermouth. Her self-control went, and she broke into deep, painful sobbing."Why did you bring us to this terrible place?" she choked out. "Whatright did you have to take us away from our home? You--a father--tobring six children out here into this mud--four helpless littleones--this--this horrible _wilderness_!" The words were torn from her,her whole body shook with the violence of her feelings. "You werewilling to take a chance, weren't you? But how about us! What if westarve to death out here! How will you feel when there is _nothing_ toeat--nothing for the babies, nothing for any of us? Joe, Joe, what haveyou 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 s
tood silent,alone, his head hanging low. He made no move to touch her. Under herlashing all his courage had fled. He did not know his own mind. Likelyhe was all wrong to have come out here. He was lost, and his family waslost with him.

  She dashed the tears furiously out of her eyes, and then suddenly shesaw 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 herattack was doing to him. Helplessly, she looked at his stoopedshoulders, at his hands hanging lifeless. A knife of pain turned in herchest. Everything that Joe had done, he had done for all of them. Thetrip was to bring all of them to a new and better place. If Joe had morehankering than other men had for an independent life, didn't that makehim a better father too, a man for the children to look up to? Why, shewas attacking the very courage that made Joe Tower the fine man that hewas, the fine father, the brave and loving husband.

  Her fears did not disappear, but something bigger and more importantthan fear flowed into her. Her sobs stopped. She went to Joe and put herarms 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 anunderdose 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 atthis, my darling, and have a good laugh over it, some day!"

  An enormous relief came to his face. His shoulders straightened, and hetook 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 heneeded 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 exactlyhalf of the coffee, smiling tremulously at each other over the rim ofthe cup.

  They returned to the children then.

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

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

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

  On both sides of the curtain little pairs of ears were attentive, andeyes stared expectantly into the darkness of the wagon. Joe continuedhis story.

  By sheer coincidence the little wagon in the story had the same numberof children in it that this wagon carried. But the mules were stubbornand would not pull. Even a carrot dangled in front of their noses wouldnot make them move. They wanted to go back to Missouri. Finally thechildren in the little wagon had a happy inspiration. They stood wherethe mules could hear them--these mules could understand childrentalk--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 startedwalking toward Oregon. The mules looked at each other, decided they'dbeen 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 anice story, Daddy."

  Little Joe yawned prodigiously and Alfred and Carlyle snuggled a bitcloser 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 stilllay awake. He had a feeling that she did, but he did not want to whisperto her and risk awakening her if she was asleep. He stared at theblackness over him.

  Grandpa Seeley had told him as much as any man could tell another aboutgoing to Oregon. But no man could really know unless he tried thejourney himself; how could Grandpa Seeley have forecast the rain and thesea of mud? Joe stirred uneasily. He had, in a very real sense,appointed himself the guardian of seven lives and he knew very well thatthose lives were now in danger. Their supplies were dangerously low andit was still an undetermined distance to Laramie. In that moment Joewished 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 certainlycloser than Independence or Kearney and there was nothing for Joe atKearney. The die was cast. They had made their choice.

  The curtain rustled and Emma's hand came through, searching in the darkfor her husband. Tenderly, Joe took the proffered hand, and shewhispered,

  "Joe, it will be all right."

  He whispered back, "Yes, darling."

  There was silence while their hands remained clasped. Joe thought, withanguish, of all his wife had endured. No part of it had been easy forher, 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 verysoul.

  Expressing a hope that was nothing more than a hope, he whispered withan 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. Theywere 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 hardshipand danger. Joe's hand still in hers, Emma fell asleep.

  In the middle of the next morning, the laboring mules finally pulled thewagon onto dry ground. Joe heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, and themules 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 aweek, 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 smallround pebbles. They were some sort of quartz, Joe didn't know just whatbecause he had never seen them before, and when held to the light theywere translucent. The youngsters had devised a fascinating game wherein,unseen by the rest, one hid a few pebbles. Then all the rest had toguess how many there were, and the one who came nearest held the pebblesnext 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 isnot the way to play this game!"

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

  Emma breathed, "This is wonderful!"

  "Like riding on feathers," Joe agreed and he call
ed back to hisdaughter, "How do you like this, Bobby?"

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

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

  "Oh," he said, only half understanding.

  She said softly, "Our little girl has grown up, Joe. But she isn't sogrown-up that she can't dream, and I hope she never will be. What wereyou 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 havea 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 waslost. There was nobody at all I could tell things to, or share with, andthe first day I saw you I knew I could never leave."

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

  They laughed heartily, for the sheer joy of laughing, and back in thewagon the children laughed too. But they had not kept their voices lowenough. Barbara had heard, and she knelt staring dreamily out of theopen 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 toOregon long before the rest would ever get there.

  Despite the mud, Tad had not forsworn his announced intention of walkingevery inch of the way to Oregon. He hadn't had a bad time because of hisweight; places where the wagon bogged down, he could skip over. Wherethe Trail was too muddy, Tad sought the knolls and rises on one side orthe other and often these were short cuts. Now, the faithful Mike closebeside him, he was waving from a knoll about a hundred yards ahead andhis 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 Tadindicated, and knit his brows in wonder. Three hundred yards farther on,almost squarely in the center of the Trail, was another wagon. It wasoddly still and only half real, a ghost that haunted the Trail. Its oncetaut canvas cover sagged, and the back flaps gaped emptily. Emma turnedpuzzled 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 hada driver, it contained no people at all now. Tad, racing toward it,stopped uncertainly and waited while Mike bristled beside him. Theyoungster had been halted by sight of the oxen that had once drawn thiswagon, but that now lay dead in their yokes. Joe stopped the mules,handed the reins to Emma, and walked slowly toward the wagon. Hiscourage restored by his father's presence, Tad kept pace with him. Joelooked at the oxen, dead too long to have any hope of discovering whathad killed them. He swung up to look into the wagon and, as he hadexpected, 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 shootingfrom other wagons."

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

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

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

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

  They drove on, sobered by this evidence of certain accident, andpossible tragedy, along the Oregon Trail. The hard trail continued; raincountry was definitely behind. But a cold north wind still blew and Joeurged on the mules. There was no summer weather behind that wind and hehad no desire to be caught out here when snow fell. For a moment theyrode in silence, and it seemed that there was something alien amongthem. Even the children were still, and Emma turned to Joe, vaguelypuzzled.

  "Do you hear anything?"

  "By gosh, I thought I did."

  "I too."

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

  "Hey, Pa!"

  Tad's voice was desperate and wild. Running hard, the youngster appearedon a near-by knoll. Joe stopped the team and waited, while fear's coldfingers caressed his spine. Tad's jacket was open, his facesweat-streaked, and he had run so far and so fast that he gasped forbreath.

  "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 toEmma, and helped his exhausted son. He cracked the bull whip over bothmules and gave them free rein.

  "Hi-eee! Get up there!"

  The mules sprang forward, jerking their traces tight, and the whipcracked over them again. They broke into a wild gallop while the wagonjolted over some unseen obstacle. Joe braced his feet and shouted toEmma,

  "Get in back!"

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

  Then the mules needed no whipping, for the first of the buffalo were insight. 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 backforced them on. A flowing, brown sea of beasts, the noise of their hoofsdrowned all other noises and the very earth seemed to shake.

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

  "Pa!"

  "What?" Joe roared back.

  "Can I use the rifle?"

  "Yes!"

  Some great and terrible thing, some mighty force, bumped the wagon andsent it slewing sidewise. Joe slanted the reins forward, as though by sodoing he might give the mules more speed, and willed wings onto theirhoofs. He heard the rifle's spiteful crack. Then the mules slowed oftheir own accord and he knew they were safe, but by a very narrowmargin. The wagon had actually been bumped by one of the runningbuffalo. Joe drew the panting mules to a halt and looked back to see thegreat 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 havepounded it to bits. I wanted to get one of the rear-most so we'd havesomethin' to eat."

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

  Pale and shaken, Emma took her place on the seat beside Joe. Barbarawiped her face with a handkerchief. Too young to appreciate the dangerthey had avoided, the younger children stood with open mouths, staringat the fleeing buffalo. Joe squeezed Emm
a'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 leapedafter him. Before leaving the wagon's shelter, Tad reloaded the rifleand Joe nodded approvingly. Tad was no fool. The buffalo was down, butnobody had proved that it could not get up and Tad wanted to be ready ifit did. Joe continued to watch, not joining Tad because this rightlybelonged to him. It was a prize worthy of note, and because he himselfhad brought it down, it would help shape Tad's manhood if nobody elseinterfered. 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 ofmischief."

  "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. Thebuffalo was a fat cow with a big hump, and Joe thought curiously that hehad never really known before how large buffalo can be. He looked atEmma's happy eyes, and knew what she was thinking. The Tower familystill 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, andthere 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 andthat was always the best eating. Joe began at one haunch, Tad at theother, and they skinned the dead beast. The freed skin was dropped onboth 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 andwhat they should leave. Somewhere he had heard that the hump was thebest part of any buffalo, and certainly they'd want the liver. The restof the meat would have to cool and season before it would be fit foruse, but the liver they could eat tonight. However, before they could doanything about the hump, the carcass would have to be made lighter.

  Expertly Joe sliced around one of the haunches, and he was surprisedwhen he lifted it quite easily. It weighed, he estimated, no more than ahundred pounds. Maybe buffalo looked bigger than they were. Joe laid thehaunch 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 theother haunch, and opened the belly cavity to get the liver. Of the frontquarters they took only the choicest parts, and Joe used his saw to cutout the loin. He rolled the lightened carcass over on its side andsliced experimentally at the hump. He was surprised to find a ridge ofbone there, and he stood to look down on it. Joe tried again, andfailed, to remove the hump. He shrugged. Evidently, whoever had saidthat the hump was a choice part of any buffalo, didn't know what theywere talking about.

  Joe, Emma and Tad worked with the meat, throwing away all tissue andbone and keeping only what was edible. Because they were working underadverse conditions, and without all the tools they needed, it took themlonger than it would have taken to prepare a steer's carcass. But whenthey were finished, every meat box was filled and there was still muchof the buffalo left.

  That night, the first in many, they camped among trees and had wood fortheir 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 fourhelpings and Emma and Barbara each had two. It was good eating, butthere seemed to be in it a certain quality that enabled one to eat largequantities 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 theirheads. They sat around the festive board, completely relaxed and happy.Last night, after the crushing disappointment of missing the antelopeand knowing they had more mud to face, near despair had reigned. Tonightthey were on hard ground, with a wood fire, and there was more thanplenty for everyone. They would get through.

  The next day the sun shone, and the day after that. But a cold windstill 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, andJoe hurried the mules as much as he could. He gave thanks because theTrail remained dry and they could make good time. When he came to theriver he stopped for a few minutes.

  It was a willow-bordered, slow-moving river that emptied into thePlatte, and it seemed a gentle thing. The tired mules halted in theirtraces and Joe got down from the wagon seat. Mike and Tad beside him, hewalked back and forth on the bank of the river and tried to find ananswer to the riddle which he felt must exist here. The Trail went intothe river and out the other side; other wagons had forded it. But therestill seemed to be a question, and Joe was puzzled because he could seeno reason to question. He could not see the bottom of the river, but itwas 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 mulesstepped forward, then suddenly sidewise. Joe's heart missed a beat andhe let them go, for now he saw why he had had an instinctive fear ofthis river.

  When the other wagons crossed, it must have been low, perhaps littlemore than a trickle. But, doubtless due to upcountry rains, now it wasin flood and had undercut its banks. Where other wagons had found a safeford, he found only a treacherous shell of dirt. The wagon lurchedsickeningly, threatened to tip, then came out of a hole into which theright front wheel had fallen. The mules strained with all theirstrength, swung back toward solid ground, and Joe breathed his thanksbecause 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 mulesstrove mightily to move it, the wagon stopped. Then it was moving againand Joe felt sick. The right front wheel had gone down, and the rightfront wheel was still down while the wagon dragged on its axle. Thewheel was broken, and he had a spare for everything except wheels. Thenhe stifled his fright.

  The mules came to safe ground and stopped, their sides heaving. Joestepped from the wagon to see what he knew he would find. The rim wasbroken, 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 theyoungsters 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 andtake a wheel from it. The mules won't be hauling a wagon and I should beable 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. Ifthere were a fort, or even a house--But there wasn't any and he couldn'tbuild any. Joe turned to his son. He looked down in the wide, trustingeyes, and he felt both proud and fearful.

  "Tad, you must take over."

  "Su
re, Pa." His face was eager.

  "I don't think you'll have any trouble. But if you do, if anyone at allcomes, 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 thehorse 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." Shemanaged a smile.

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

  They watched him ride away, the younger children merely staring. ButBarbara and Emma had a sudden sense of weakness, as though theirstrength 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, theterrible emptiness of this wild place, struck Emma Tower like a solidblow. She shivered and kept her face averted because she did not wanther children to see what was written there. Gazing down the Trail, shethought 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-chillingnotion that she would never see him again.

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

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

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

  She watched them as they left to do her bidding, her lovely daughter andthe son who was so like his father. Tad had the long rifle over hisshoulder and he would not go out of sight of the wagon. Every second orso 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 carrya 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 ofMissouri, she knew something about rifles and she had seen her son aimfrom a jolting, careening wagon and stop a running buffalo with oneshot. Suddenly, though she could not help worrying about Joe, theemptiness was not a complete vacuum and she no longer felt deserted.This, while not normal, was no extraordinary situation. The Towers mightbe here instead of in a proper house. Wherever they were, they wouldtake care of themselves.

  The chickens scratched in the grass. Tethered in good grazing, thegentle cow stood patiently while Emma milked her. She marveled. Thoughthe cow had walked all the way from Missouri, and could graze only whenthe wagon stopped, she still gave almost a third as much milk as she hadgiven 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 hisbody and started the blaze with only one match. The match bottle hecorked carefully and put exactly where it belonged. Emma watched fondlyand a little wistfully. Some time, she thought, the world might be insuch a condition that an eight-year-old could be a boy without having tobe a man. Still, if there was any lack in his life, Tad did not seem tobe aware of it. He had been left with responsibilities, and he wasaccepting them. And he fairly bristled with his new-foundself-importance.

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

  Emma baked bread, broiled buffalo steaks, and divided the milk, givingeach of the youngest children a double portion and Barbara and herself ahalf portion. She liked coffee with her evening meals. But they were lowon coffee, she wanted to save what there was for Joe, and it was by nomeans certain that they would be able to buy any at Laramie. Even ifsome were available it would probably be expensive, for every pound ofeverything except meat had to be freighted in wagons or carried on thebacks of pack animals.

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

  "Tell us a story," Alfred begged.

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

  She had a sweet and clear soprano, and Barbara's voice was as lovely asBarbara. They sang "Yankee Doodle," the first song Yancey Garrow hadplayed for them and one Emma had learned at her father's knee. It wasthe marching song of American soldiers in the Revolutionary War, andEmma's father had fought in that war. There was discord at first, buteven Carlyle caught the rhythm and carried his end fairly well. Theywent through the same song four times because the children wereentranced with their ability to sing it, and then Tad rose to peer intothe 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. Theydid 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. Somenights Mike was apt to go prowling, and that was all right as long asJoe was with them. Nobody worried then, for nobody doubted that Joewould hear, in time, any danger that stalked them. But tonight Mike mustnot prowl, for they depended on him to warn them.

  Emma let the drop curtain fall and took Barbara and baby Emma on herside. She peered around the curtain to see Tad, who had chosen to sleepnear the partly open flaps, arranging the powder horn and bullet pouchwhere 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 stoleforth to grasp a long-bladed knife. She took it to bed with her, andonly then did she pray.

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

  "Tad?"

  "Yes, Ma?"

  "Go to sleep now."

  "Yes, Ma."

  Tad stopped his restless wriggling, sorry because he had kept his motherawake. Very carefully, not making a sound, he rose and peered throughthe back flaps. He couldn't see anything, but he thought he sawsomething and cold fright gripped him. He lay down, knowing that he mustnot sleep and wishing mightily that Joe was here. Everything alwaysseemed so safe and secure then, but everything was so terrifying now. Heleaped at a noise, then identified it as Mike's grunting. Tad noddedsleepily, and he was half awake and half asleep when he heard thethunder of horses
' hoofs. They were sweeping down on the wagon; andopening the back flaps, Tad saw them coming. There were at least fortyof the Indians, and even though his father had told him not to defendthe wagon, he had to defend it now. He shot, saw the leading warriorpitch from his horse, and reloaded the rifle to shoot again. Trembling,he came completely awake and lay shivering for a moment. What he hadheard was only the wind plucking at the wagon cover. Now lulled by thesound, Tad settled back into bed. He thought of Buster Trevelyan, backin Missouri, and hoped that some day he would see Buster again so hecould tell all about his hair-raising adventures on the Oregon Trail. Heheard a night bird call, fought himself to wakefulness, then went tosleep 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 keenerand colder than it had been before. Emma dressed the babies, glanced atTad to make sure that he had dressed himself warmly, and took up theduties of the day.

  She made the longest possible ceremony of breakfast. Even so, after itwas all done and the dishes washed, the endless day faced her. Sheglanced wistfully at the river, and thought of all the clothes that mustbe washed. However, this was not the time for washing. There were moreimportant affairs.

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

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

  Even though she dreaded it, she was glad when night came again. All daylong the youngsters had had to be kept busy and happy, and there wereonly her own and Barbara's resources upon which to draw. Though shefeared what the night would bring, at least the youngsters would sleep.Emma put them to bed, and again, in the darkness, she took the longknife 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 shefought exhaustion, and set herself to listen as she had listened alllast night. It was still dark inside the wagon when she heard Mike'schallenging bark.

  She awoke in sudden panic, terrified by the thought that she had letherself 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 tosee Tad, rifle in hand, climbing out of the wagon. Emma slipped past thecurtain and stepped carefully over her still-sleeping sons. It was stilldark inside the wagon, but dawn's first faint light had come. Emmaleaned 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 barkagain and peering intently in the direction the dog was looking. Emmatightened her grip on the knife and made ready to fight for herchildren's lives.

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

  "It's Pa! Pa's come back!"