"Give you a horsewhipping."
He took a ridiculous little whip from a socket in his cart and shook it
threateningly. Joe caught up the long-lashed bull whip that he sometimes
used on the mules.
"If you want to play--"
The lash snapped within an inch of the other's ear and the mules jumped
nervously. With a practiced hand, Joe held them in. He faced the
dandified youngster in the cart.
"Smart thing for you to do is leave me alone, stranger. Your dogs
started the fight."
"You barbarians from the back country--!"
"That'll be enough too."
Without another word, the outraged young man wheeled his cart and drove
on. Joe started the mules, and for a second he remained furious. Then he
chuckled.
"Give me a horsewhipping, huh! He couldn't break a soft-shelled egg with
that little switch!"
Tad came alongside the wagon and looked into it, grinning and
starry-eyed. "Gee, Pa, that was great! Why'nt you tease him into
fightin'? You could of cleaned his clock like nothin'!"
"There'll be no fights anywhere if I can help it. Speaking of that, keep
your dog on a rope while we're in Independence. It might save trouble."
"Aw, Pa--"
"You heard me." Joe tossed the youngster a length of rope. "Use this."
Joe drove on and all except Mike, who sulked under confinement or
restriction and who was doubly offended now because there were plenty of
dogs on the street, marveled at the sights and sounds of a bustling
metropolis like Independence. There were more ox, horse, and mule teams
on any one street than passed through Tenney's Crossing in three
months. Joe didn't like the place because he preferred the open country
and villages, and he'd be just as happy when he got out of it. But it
was interesting, and since they had to go through anyway, they might as
well look. Somewhere was a ferry that would take them across the
Missouri, and Independence was the last great city they'd see. Except
for Salt Lake City--and the Oregon Trail did not go through
there--everything between Independence and Oregon was still settlements,
missions, and army and trading posts.
They passed the houses and a row of shacks, and beyond them came to the
corrals. The stock traders of Independence did a thriving business, for
many of those going over the Oregon Trail came to Independence by river
boat, horseback, stage, or on foot. Then they bought the wagons that
were to carry their goods over the Trail, the beasts that were to pull
the wagons, and in some instances goods to carry in them. Some of those
who came from the east did not know how to handle stock, so that
frequently it was footsore or sick by the time they arrived at
Independence. Thus they had to replace their animals anyway.
However, most of the wagons started over the Oregon Trail in spring,
with the first ones leaving as soon as the grass was green enough to
furnish good grazing. Naturally the heaviest stock sales occurred when
there were the most emigrants wanting to buy, and now some of the
corrals were empty. But there were still more oxen, horses and mules
than Joe had ever before seen in one place.
He halted his team abruptly as a man holding one end of a rope in his
hand raced into the road. On the rope's other end was a big,
dappled-gray, fighting-mad mule. Just as the man stumbled and fell, Joe
handed the reins to Emma and leaped from the wagon.
The gray mule was pounding toward the fallen man when Joe came between
them and seized the lead rope. Instantly the mule transferred its anger
to him, and Joe dodged aside. He shortened the rope as he did so,
getting closer to the gray mule. It was, he saw, as much frightened as
angry and Joe spoke soothingly. At the same time, his anger rose. Some
men should never handle mules, and obviously the man now picking himself
up out of the road was one of them.
Bit by bit, never making a fast move and always sure of himself, Joe
calmed the mule. He got his hands on the halter's check strap, and
continued to utter soothing words with his mouth the while he talked
with his hands too. He did not look around when the man who had been
mishandling the animal said defiantly, "I quit!" and stalked off down
the road. His departure seemed further to reassure the gray mule.
"Howdy, friend."
Joe turned to face a man as tall as he was, and as wide through the
middle as he was tall. He had sparse hair, shrewd eyes, a pudgy nose,
and flabby lips behind which gold teeth flashed. A frayed, unlighted
cigar was clutched firmly in his teeth, Joe said,
"Howdy."
"You're a mule man, huh?"
"Just wanted to keep that idiot from getting killed."
"You shouldn't have bothered; sooner or later he'll get killed anyhow.
He told me he could gentle some mules."
"He must have used a club."
"He did. You Oregon-bound?"
"Yup."
"You'll never make it this season."
"I know that."
"How about taking the job you just saw left vacant? I'll pay you well.
My name's Jake Favors."