Morning light was dim behind the windows when Joe slipped out of bed. He
moved carefully, making no noise, and after he had dressed he kept his
shoes in his hand. A worried frown creased his brow, for last night had
been a bad one.
It had started as soon as Joe came home from Tenney's store, where he
had gone in the early afternoon to see Lester Tenney. He had counted on
Les, a wise and good man, to advise him correctly and to give him
information which he needed badly. Joe wanted to find out more about the
west and, though he might have asked Bibbers Townley, he wanted the
truth and nobody could count on Bibbers to tell the truth about
anything.
Joe wanted to find somebody who had been west and who would give a
reasonably accurate account of what it was like, and just as he
expected, Les had known someone to whom he might go. At Hammerstown,
fifteen miles from Tenney's Crossing, there lived a man named John
Seeley. He was a farmer like Joe, and with him lived his ancient father.
Grandpa Seeley could do little nowadays except sit in the sun in summer
and nod before the stove in winter, but his mind had not decayed when
his body weakened, and he knew as much as anyone else about the west.
The famed Mountain Men, Jim Bridger, Jim Clyman, Kit Carson, had been
his close friends. More than a dozen years ago, though he had not been a
young man even then, he had helped guide the Mormon wagon trains on
their incredible, desperate journey between Nauvoo, Illinois, and the
valley of the Great Salt Lake.
Grandpa Seeley had lived in the west until just a few years ago, and
probably he'd be there yet if his body had been equal to the task of
keeping him there. Now he had no choice except living with his son. If
Joe wanted to know about the west, Grandpa Seeley was the man who could
tell him.
Joe went home, satisfied. But as soon as he arrived, his satisfaction
turned to worry.
Young Emma, his second daughter, had always been subject to some
mysterious ailment. The attacks came suddenly and without any warning at
all. One moment the five-year-old would be playing with her brothers and
sisters and the next she'd be gasping for breath while red fever spots
flared in her cheeks and she was hot to the touch. Joe got home to find
his daughter sick again.
It was a worrisome thing, and all the more so because there was nothing
that could be done about it. The doctor whom Joe had once ridden all
night to fetch had been no more helpful than the herbs which Granny
Trevelyan gathered by the thin light of the moon's first quarter. The
fever just had to run its course.
Emma was sitting in the cushioned chair, with young Emma clasped to her
bosom, when Joe came in. He looked at them and knew. Emma had a love and
devotion big enough to enfold everyone around her, except when one of
her family was ill. Then whoever that might be got all she could offer.
Joe grieved. He was burdened by an overwhelming sense of clumsy
inadequateness, and though he knew he could do nothing he asked anyway,
"Can I do anything for you?"
Emma did not speak, but her lips formed the word No. For a moment Joe
lingered helplessly near, still wanting to help but unable to do so. He
knew that the words he said were not the right ones, but he said them
anyway.
"The man I have to see is in Hammerstown. Shall I go tomorrow morning or
would you rather I stayed here?"