"But," her eyes puzzled, "I asked you to."
"I know. I made a box for them and put them in the wagon instead."
A little anguished shadow flitted across her face. "I couldn't bear to
have them broken."
"They won't be broken," he assured her. "The Casper's broke because they
just didn't know how to pack. We're taking eggs too, aren't we? Every
piece will get to Oregon with us."
The anguished shadow faded and she cast him a glance of purest love. But
doubts remained, and she was a bit ashamed.
"We have so much to carry and so little room."
"There's room for that little box. You'd like to have your dishes,
wouldn't you?"
"I'd love to!"
"Then they're going to Oregon with us. I'd better get the rifle. Left it
outside."
Joe walked out to get the rifle, which was still leaning against the
sycamore, and he returned to the house with it. He smiled whimsically.
The pegs in his and Emma's bedroom were no longer a safe place for the
rifle; they hadn't been in the first place or Tad never would have been
able to smuggle the weapon out of the house. Joe set his jaw. Tad would
have to use the rifle; it was an indispensable part of any man's
equipment on any frontier. But he would have to use it properly. If he
didn't, if there was any more irresponsible shooting, he'd feel the flat
of his father's hand again.
For the time being, Joe hung the rifle back on its pegs. He turned to
smile at his wife.
"The mules are shod, and there's not a darn thing to do except start for
Oregon."
Emma clasped her hands together, her one gesture of apprehension. "It
doesn't seem possible, does it?"
"Nope. Seems like there must be a hundred things to do yet. We'd best
remember to catch your hens and rooster while they're on the roost
tonight. Oh my golly!"
"What's the matter?"
"I left Pete standing outside!"
Joe went to the door to call Pete, and just as he did so Yancey Garrow
rode up on his gaunt brown horse. He held a package across the saddle in
front of him, and his fiddle case was over his shoulder. Grinning, he
dismounted.
"Lucy thought you might like to take this along. It's a ham and a side
of bacon."
"You butchering now?"
"We always," and Yancey voiced what Joe knew was a bald-faced lie, "kill
one hog in summer." Joe gulped. With the possible exception of John
Seeley, who could afford it, nobody butchered in the summer. But the
Garrows had wanted their departing friends to enjoy ham and bacon. Joe
said,
"That's right good of you, Yancey."
"It's nothing," the other said airily. He carried the package of meat
into the house.