Joe tiptoed away from them. He could help a sick cow or mule, but he did
not know what to do for his daughter, and he left his wife alone because
it seemed that, by so doing, in some way maybe he was helping at least a
little bit. A woman with an ailing child needed all her energies just to
take care of it, and if she could be relieved of taking care of anything
else, that was good.
Barbara took over, as Joe had known she would, and prepared the evening
meal. It was as though Emma were still somehow in charge, for the
children looked to Barbara as they did to their mother, and they obeyed
her as they did Emma. Even Tad made no noise, and Joe felt a great
humility. He was worried for the baby and her mother, but beyond feeling
sorrow he did not know what else to do. He was glad that he was not
called upon to run the household, for he would not have known how to go
about it. He understood, as he had known since his marriage, that there
are some things which only a woman can do.
That night he was lost. It was hard to remember when he and Emma had not
shared the same bed. It was very lonely without her and very dreary, and
because she wasn't beside him, sleep could not be good. At the same
time, he reproached himself. He was a man, not a child, and men took
care of themselves. They shouldn't need anything except themselves, but
Joe knew that they had great need. His bed had been an empty one, and
even though he had slept, it was not sound slumber.
Now, while shattered shreds of night battled with approaching day, he
paused to look tenderly at his wife and child. They were still in the
cushioned chair, and both slept. But even though she was not awake,
Emma's possessive arms still wrapped her daughter securely. It was as
though she were a high wall over which the peril that stalked the baby
would have to climb before it could work real harm.
His shoes still in his hand, Joe took a long while to open the door in
order to open it silently. He was hungry. But a man didn't think of his
own needs if forgetting them meant that a feverish child and her mother
could have another few moments of blessed rest. Besides, the hunger that
tormented him was as nothing compared to the fever that burned baby
Emma.
Joe closed the door as softly as he had opened it, easing it back on
its hinges and letting the latch fall slowly. His shoes still in his
hand, he walked a little way onto the dew-wet grass before he sat down
to pull the shoes on and lace them. For a moment he sat still,
undecided, while the dew seeped through the bottom of his trousers and
against his warm seat. He could always go to Hammerstown when baby Emma
was well again, and if he stayed home today there might be some little
things he could do to help Emma. He might bring cold water for her, or
perhaps she'd need something from the store. Joe made up his mind.
Barbara and Tad could do whatever needed the doing, and every day that
passed was one day closer to the frosts of autumn. There was no time to
lose. Besides, only Emma knew how to help the sick youngster.
He did not cease to worry as he took a bridle from its peg in the barn
and went toward the mules' pasture, but he was not so desperately
troubled as he had been.
Joe hid the bridle behind his back as he approached the pasture. The
mules looked at him from the corners of their eyes, then turned their
backs and drifted toward the other side of the corral. Joe muttered
under his breath. When they thought they would have to work, the mules
were always hard to catch. Joe dropped the bridle beside the fence and
returned to the barn. He stuck a rope in his belt and took a couple of
handfuls of corn out of the grain barrel. The corn in a wooden scoop, he
went back to the mule pasture, entered the gate, and lolled near it.
He thought again of the night in Tenney's store, and of Bibbers Townley
telling about the west. In spite of the fact that Bibbers had been
lying, the spirit of something bright and wonderful had been present.
Joe thought of land, as much as a man wanted, free for the taking. He
saw his sons planting grain for themselves, and not rows of dollar bills
for some banker. He thought of his daughters happily married to strong
men who needed, and had, space in which to grow.
The mules came, switching their tails and bobbing their heads, and the
rising excitement that mounted in Joe kept him from feeling any
resentment toward them. All his life he had looked for something which
he had never found, but he had never despaired of finding it and he was
still looking. If he had not been worried about baby Emma, this would
have been the best day he had known in a long while.
The advancing mules stopped three feet away, and tried to stretch their
heads far enough to reach the grain scoop. Joe still lolled idly against
the fence, and seemed obviously uninterested in the mules. They knew him
almost as well as he did them, and he mustn't act as though he wanted to
catch them. Joe turned away, rattling the corn as he did so.
They were upon him in a quick little rush, thrusting their enormous
heads into the grain scoop. Sometimes when they were not to be harnessed
they were given a handful of grain, and Joe knew how to allay their
suspicions. They began to lick the corn with wet tongues. Neither raised
its head, for there was only a little grain and each had to eat as
quickly as possible lest the other get more than a just share.
Joe worked his hand down to the rope in his belt, and when his fingers
closed around it, he brought the grain scoop closer. The mules blew
through their nostrils and followed. Then, seeing too late that they had
fallen into a trap, both tried to wheel and pound away. Joe slipped the
rope over the mare mule's head, took a half hitch around a fence post,
and stepped out of reach when the mule slashed at him with her yellowed
teeth.
Joe laughed. The mare mule was not less cunning and scheming than her
teammate, but the horse had a pounding, hard gait that was difficult for
a rider going only a short way and spine-shattering for a long ride. The
mare had a gentle, rocking pace, and she was the faster of the two.
The mare pulled to the end of her rope, but not far enough to tighten it
around her neck and choke herself, and she was looking fixedly at Joe
when he came with the bridle. She stepped suddenly forward, slackening
the rope, and scuttled sidewise to pin him between the fence and
herself.
Joe laughed again, and brought the blunt end of his shoe hard into her
soft belly. Her ears sagged reproachfully as she retreated and stood
still. The mules always fought with their master, but it never did them
any good because Joe remained master. She was docile enough as he
slipped the bit into her mouth, strapped the bridle on, and led her
through the gate.
The horse mule watched the whole procedure suspiciously. Then, as soon
as the gate was closed and latched, and he knew that Joe wanted only the
mare, he shattered the morning stillness with a far-carrying bray before
trotting over to lick up the few grains of corn that had spilled on the
ground.
Joe vaulted astride the mare and set himself for the lunge that he knew
was coming now. He tried to make her keep her head up, but she got it
down and bucked. Joe gripped her sides with his knees, and for a moment
she pitched and twisted. Then she reared, trying to make him slide back
over her tail, and when she did Joe shortened the rein so she couldn't
get her head down again. She panted angrily, then obeyed the tug of the
rein and started down the path toward Tenney's. Joe knew another moment
of tormenting uncertainty.
He was a realist, and experience had taught him that nothing worth
having came easily. Though he knew nothing about the west, he did know
what wagon travel involved. At the best, it was not easy. Though he
never doubted Emma's moral fiber, though he knew that once having
decided to go she would spare herself nothing to make the trip possible
and successful, was her physical strength equal to the hardships that
they would almost certainly endure before they reached the land they
wanted? Suppose baby Emma became desperately ill along the way and had
only a wagon for shelter? Alfred, Carlyle and Joe were very young. Was
Barbara equal to such a trip? Joe half turned the mule around, then
turned her back and went on. He had taken upon himself the duty of
digging out all possible information in advance. He had promised Emma to
take care of her--and that meant he must prepare for every situation in
which they were likely to find themselves. The sources of reliable
information were few, but Seeley was one, and he meant to get to Seeley
as early in the day as he humanly could.
The morning was lighter. But it was still too early for most people to
be up and, save for Lard Head, who lay sleeping in front of the store,
there was nobody around Tenney's Crossing. From the last house a little
white dog ran out, yapped ineffectively at the mule, and scuttled back
into the shadows when she lunged at him.
The mule broke into a fast canter and Joe let her run. Then, of her own
accord, she slowed to an easy trot and walked on the upgrades. This was
a wagon road, and sometimes wagons made the trip between Tenney's
Crossing and Hammerstown when they were heavily loaded and in wet
weather. The ruts on either side of the road were deep and uneven, and
here and there they had been filled in with rocks. The bleached bones of
an ox that had died on this road and been dragged aside were scattered
about a grassy little dell.
The sky brightened, and Joe forgot his doubts. He felt light-hearted,
almost gay, as he rode through forest broken by an occasional clearing.
Little Emma, he assured himself, would be all right because she was
always all right when her mother took care of her. And about the lost
crops there need be no worry. If a man couldn't do one thing he could
always do another, and the only really unfortunate men were those who
wept, but did nothing else, when trouble came.
The mule had stopped cantering and trotting and was walking now. But she
had a very fast walk, she covered ground much more swiftly than a
walking man, and she was not fighting him any more. But Joe continued to
watch her closely and to feel with his knees for any change in her.
Mules were expert pretenders. They struck when it was least expected.
However, if a man knew mules, they always gave some warning.
A mighty hunger mounted within Joe as he thought of the breakfast
Barbara would prepare for her mother and brothers and sisters. But if
he'd stopped for breakfast he would have risked awakening Emma and the
youngster. And he'd had to leave early because time was important. He
must find out about the west, then take back to Emma everything he
discovered.
They came to a long, gently slanting downgrade, and the mule trotted
again. A white-tailed deer with twin fawns at her heels floated like a
shadow across the road in front of him and stood on the forested
hillside. A singing pleasure rose in Joe, and he slowed the mule as he
passed because he wanted to look more closely at the doe and her dappled
babies. He wished that Emma might be along, for she always enjoyed such
sights, too.
Not until they were well past did Joe think that venison was good
eating, some of the best, and he was very hungry now. Well, no doubt he
would get something to eat at the Seeleys'. Joe had never met them, but
any stranger who came to your door should be offered food because that
was only common politeness. It was unthinkable to send even an enemy
away hungry.
A little more than two hours after he left his farm, Joe rode into
Hammerstown.
Save that the store was smaller and much more run down than Tenney's,
Hammerstown might have been Tenney's Crossing. There were half a dozen
houses, a church, and a log building that served as a school and for any
other public business that might have to be transacted. The timber had
been cleared away to make fields, and beyond Hammerstown there were more
farms. Two men were just coming out of the store, and as soon as he was
abreast of them, Joe swung his mule around and stopped her.
"Can you tell me where John Seeley lives?" he called.
They regarded him with candid interest. "Straight down the road. John's
place is on top of the first hill. Somethin' we can do for you?"
"You can tell me if the Seeleys will be home."
"They'll be home. Think you can find the place?"
"I reckon. Thank you."
"You're welcome, stranger."
Joe swung the mule back down the road and out of Hammerstown. A man with
a yoke of oxen looked curiously at him as he passed and two children
stopped to stare. Joe resented no part of it. People who lived in such
places, and who seldom saw anyone except their near neighbors, were
always frankly curious about anyone whom they did not know. The mule
walked up the first hill and Joe guided her into the farmyard on top of
it. It was more substantial than most farms, with a good, solid log
house covered by a shingled roof. Obviously John Seeley enjoyed more
than average prosperity, for there were glass windows on all sides of
the house. Behind the house were a barn and sheds, and fields and forest
beyond them.
A man with two teams of oxen was skidding a heavy drag of logs across a
field toward the barn, and a boy about fifteen years old accompanied
him. A bevy of small children crowded into the house's open door, and a
shaggy dog that barked desultorily as it came, wagged toward Joe. The
mule backed warily, and Joe kept a sharp eye on her. He had come to seek
something from the people who lived here, and letting his mule kick
their dog around was not the way to cement friendly relations.
A woman who, Joe thought, looked somewhat like Emma, came to stand in
the doorway behind the children and at once Joe felt a little easier.
Though he was usually ill at ease with strange women, he felt that he
could talk to this one. He slid from the mule, holding the reins, and
Joe said politely,
"I'm looking for John Seeley's place, ma'am. My name's Joe Tower. I come
from over Tenney's Crossing way."
She smiled a warm welcome. "This is the Seeley place, Mr. Tower. My
man's in the wood lot right now."
"There's a man and boy coming in. They have a drag of logs."
"That's my man and boy. Have you had breakfast, Mr. Tower?"
"No, ma'am."
"And you rode from Tenney's! I'll get you something right away! Just put
your mule in back."
She hurried into the house and Joe led the mule toward the outbuildings.
He'd brought a tie rope because, no matter how hospitable a host might
be, one didn't just ask for corn to help catch his mule. Joe looped the
rope around the mule's neck and tied her to a fence post before he
slipped the bridle off. He turned to meet the man and boy who, by this
time, were very near the barn.
John Seeley was a stocky, square-built man, and apparently he never made
a fast move if a slow one would serve. But there was about him that
which was as solid and dependable as the land he worked, and Joe warmed
to him. He had an approving glance for the youngster who, Joe suspected,
was a mirror of what the father had been twenty years ago.
"Are you John Seeley?" Joe asked.
"That's me," the other's voice was as deep as he was stocky. "What can I
do for you?"
"My name's Tower," Joe introduced himself. "Joe Tower. I didn't exactly
come to talk with you, but with your father. Les Tenney told me he's
been west."
"And you," the other guessed, "aim to go?"
"I've been pondering on it. First I wanted to talk with somebody who's
been there."
"I've been there."
"You have?"
"That's right, and I'll take Missouri."
"You didn't like it?"
"I like this better. Man, the west's no land of milk and honey. The
rain's as wet there, the snow's as cold, the bugs bite as hard, and it's
to heck and gone from any other place."
"How about free land?"
"There's that if a man has to have it."
"Depends on how you look at things, don't it?"
The other gave him a searching glance. "That's right. When do you aim to
leave?"
"Don't know yet that I will leave. I just wanted to find out."
"Tell you what," John Seeley suggested, "I've been only once over the
California Road or, as some call it, the Oregon Trail. But my father
spent most of his life in the west. Talk to him; he'll be up soon.
Reckon you saw Sophie?"
"That I did. She's kind enough to get me some breakfast and I can't say
I'm sorry. Left before sun-up."
"Goshamighty! Fifteen miles with nothing to eat! Come in fast!"
Joe followed the other into his house, and sniffed hungrily at the good
smell of pancakes baking and sausage sizzling. He knew a moment's envy.
John Seeley must be very prosperous if he could afford sausage in July.
To most people, by that time good meat was only a luscious memory or
something to look forward to when the weather should again make it
possible to keep meat. The children trooped out to play and the dog
frolicked with them. Sophie Seeley filled Joe's plate with golden-brown
pancakes and sausage patties, and his cup with coffee. Joe ate, and
nobody spoke while he was eating because it was impolite to talk under
such circumstances. When a man was hungry, it was most important that
his hunger be satisfied.
Joe finished and pushed his plate back. He heard the lifting of a wooden
latch, and his eyes strayed toward the door that was opening. Joe sat
forward in his chair.
The man who came into the room was old as a rock and big as a hill.
Taller than his tall son, Grandpa Seeley was stocky like John and
straight. Snow-white hair tumbled down his massive head and rippled
about his shoulders. A white beard strayed down his chest. His movements
were firm and graceful. He came straight to the table and sat down, and
not until he was seated, staring straight at Joe without seeing him, did
Joe understand that his clear blue eyes saw nothing. Grandpa Seeley was
blind and probably he found his way around the house because nobody ever
moved anything.
His son got up and stood by the old man's shoulder. He did not raise his
voice when he spoke,
"There's a man come to see you, Grandpa."
"Yes," the old man's voice had within it the blending of gentle winds,
and stormy ones, and rippling streams, and strange bird songs. "Who is
it?"
"My name's Tower," Joe spoke for himself while he reached across the
table to grasp the old man's hand, "Joe Tower. I rode from Tenney's
Crossing to ask you about the west."
"Glad to know you, Joe."
"I'd best get back to my work," John Seeley said.