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!"