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."