"She saved her tears for you, didn't she?"
"Yes. But--"
She said quietly, "One of the reasons I love you so much is because you
really don't know why a little girl would rather cry on your shoulder."
She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "Pete butchered the cow
properly."
Joe said, "Well, it will be a lot of jerky and pickled beef to take
along."
She smiled tearfully at him. "Who in this family would eat Clover, Joe?
I asked Pete to take the beef down and sell it to Lester Tenney. We can
use more money, now that we're Oregon-bound."
Joe scratched his head. "Guess you're right. I couldn't enjoy the beef
myself and we do need money." Money. And provisions. A barrel of corn
meal, Seeley had said. All the eatables they could carry.
"There's a lot of planning to do," he said to Emma.
"A lot of planning," she echoed, nodding, with an effort at crisp
composure.
Go to Independence, Grandpa Seeley had told him. Get on the Oregon Trail
and use common sense. It had all seemed so simple, but there was more to
it than that. For instance, though they probably could camp beside the
wagon much of the time, suppose there were stormy nights and they had to
sleep inside? Provision would have to be made for it. The wagon itself
would have to receive a thorough checking, with faulty parts replaced.
The box would almost surely have to be built higher, and a canvas cover
fitted tightly. Every item that went along, from the smallest to the
largest, would have to have its own place. All of it had to be planned,
and Joe had planned none of it.
Barbara came out of the room she shared with little Emma and Joe's
spirits rose. At the same time, he was puzzled and slightly amused. Only
a short time ago he had held Barbara in his arms, completely crushed and
wilted. Now there was no trace of that, but only the sheer loveliness,
intensified by excitement, that almost always walked with this girl and
that imparted itself to whatever or whomever she encountered. She
smiled.
"Why don't you go fishing and do your pondering, Daddy? You won't be
working the fields this afternoon."
Joe looked gratefully at her. All women seemed to know all men better
than any man understood any one woman. Emma knew that he needed solitude
sometimes for thinking about his problems. Like her mother, Barbara
seemed to know it too.
"Now say," Joe said, "I might just do that."
Not for a long while had he taken the time to go fishing, though he had
often wished mightily that he could go. When he fished, he knew a
serenity of soul and peace of mind that he found in doing nothing else,
and it made no difference whether or not he caught anything. The mind of
a true fisherman is not on petty subjects, and suddenly Joe knew that he
must go.
"Hurry up, Pa!" Tad called in the door. "I've got the worms all dug and
the poles all ready."
"I thought you'd gone to see Buster Trevelyan?"
"I did see him. He helped me dig worms."
Joe felt that somehow he must be a very shallow and easily led person.
His daughter had suggested that he go fishing. His wife had told him the
same thing, though she had not needed to speak. Now his son appeared
with fishing tackle and bait. Joe hesitated, and Emma urged,
"Go ahead. You won't get any work done today anyhow and fishing will be
good for you."
"Well, we might get a mess of fish."
He left the house, followed by the jubilant Tad, who had two poles with
lines, floats, and hooks attached to them slung over his shoulder and a
hollow branch containing worms in his hand. Mike tagged amiably along,
bristled hopefully when a neighbor's dog crossed Pete Domley's pasture,
and relaxed sadly when the dog kept on going. Mike didn't care what he
fought, or where or when, as long as he could fight, and Joe looked at
his son's dog with a new eye. Mike had never been an asset on the farm,
but he might be one on the Oregon Trail.
Tad led the way to a long, still pool bordered by sycamores and willows.
Joe took his pole, baited, cast, and watched his bobber float with the
gentle current. He eyed a school of minnows that were swimming in the
shoals and looked again at his bobber. The minnows in the shallow edges
of the pool were quiet, therefore nothing had been chasing them for a
while and it was Joe's guess that the fish wouldn't bite well today. If
the bass were feeding, the minnows would be more nervous and alert. Joe
asked his son a question that had been on his mind.
"How'd you know I'd go fishing this afternoon?"
"If we're goin' to Oregon, you sure wouldn't be workin' the fields."
"Is that the only reason you knew?"
"Nope. I just kind of thought it was a day for you and me to go
fishin'."
"Did your mother or sister tell you to get the worms and tackle?"
Tad said indignantly, "Now, Pa, you know they wouldn't be tellin' me to
take you fishin'!"
Joe knew that he was not telling the truth, and that Emma must have told
him to dig worms and arrange fishing tackle, and for a moment he felt a
slight annoyance. Then he relented. If anyone told the strict truth all
the time, Joe felt, they'd be very hard to live with. Tad's was a
harmless deception. The worst the youngster had in him was a streak of
wildness, and he'd outgrow that. The Oregon Trail, Joe reflected, might
take some of it out of him.
Joe relaxed on the stream bank, giving himself completely to thoughts of
this new venture and at peace with himself and the world. In his wood
lot were both hickory and oak that he had felled last year and left to
season. For a share of the timber, John Geragty would work it into
proper sizes at his saw mill. Maybe it would be a good idea to carry a
spare reach for the wagon and spare axles. They could always be slung
underneath without adding too much to the load. Since they couldn't take
everything with them--or nearly everything--they would have a lot to
sell or trade. The kitchen stove for one thing. He swallowed a lump when
he thought of Emma standing at the stove, touching it lightly with her
fingertips. Then he made himself go on with his planning. The planning,
right now, was a whole lot more necessary than the stove. They would
have to sell the stove. Stoves were none too plentiful in this country
and lots of farm wives cooked over fireplaces. The stove should get them
a new wagon cover, which Les Tenney carried in stock, and something else
besides. Now--