There was silence while their hands remained clasped. Joe thought, with
anguish, of all his wife had endured. No part of it had been easy for
her, but nothing else was as bad as the mud. It clung to everything,
found its way into every part of the wagon, and even into the food.
Normally a tidy housewife, the unconquerable mud revolted Emma's very
soul.
Expressing a hope that was nothing more than a hope, he whispered with
an effort at certainty, "Things are going to get better soon, Emma."
For answer there was only the comforting pressure of her hand.
Wind rustled the canvas cover, and Joe still stared into darkness. They
were only on the first lap of their journey, with a very long way to go.
Certainly, before they ever reached Oregon, there would be more hardship
and danger. Joe's hand still in hers, Emma fell asleep.
In the middle of the next morning, the laboring mules finally pulled the
wagon onto dry ground. Joe heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, and the
mules bobbed happy heads up and down and trotted. Emma turned gleeful,
excited eyes on her husband. Back in the wagon, for the first time in a
week, Alfred voiced childish glee.
"Is this Oregon?" he asked.
"Not quite, Ally." Joe felt like laughing.
"Let's have us a game," little Joe urged.
Just before they entered the mud, Carlyle had discovered a bed of small
round pebbles. They were some sort of quartz, Joe didn't know just what
because he had never seen them before, and when held to the light they
were translucent. The youngsters had devised a fascinating game wherein,
unseen by the rest, one hid a few pebbles. Then all the rest had to
guess how many there were, and the one who came nearest held the pebbles
next time.