Joe took from his box the tools he needed, and strapped them to the
horse mule's harness. Emma pressed a parcel into his hands.
"Here's food." Suddenly her eyes misted over, and her mouth trembled,
and then stopped. "You--you watch yourself, Joe. Be careful." She
managed a smile.
"I'll be all right," he called as he rode away. "I'll be back before you
know it."
They watched him ride away, the younger children merely staring. But
Barbara and Emma had a sudden sense of weakness, as though their
strength were going with him. Tad set his jaw and clutched the rifle.
Joe turned once to wave.
* * * * *
As soon as he was out of sight, the loneliness and desolation, the
terrible emptiness of this wild place, struck Emma Tower like a solid
blow. She shivered and kept her face averted because she did not want
her children to see what was written there. Gazing down the Trail, she
thought she saw Joe again and knew she had not. He had gone on a lonely,
dangerous ride, and for a moment she entertained the soul-chilling
notion that she would never see him again.
Then she banished such thoughts from her mind. She was here, halfway
between Missouri and God only knew where, because she had confidence in
Joe's ability to take care of his family and himself. She loved Missouri
and she would have been perfectly contented to stay there. But she loved
Joe more, and she knew all about the desperate longings and wild
undercurrents which were within him and which he must constantly battle.
She knew about the opportunities he had always sought but never had, and
of his hopes for his children. If Oregon was the answer to that, then
Oregon it would be.
Now, for another moment, all she knew was that she had been deserted and
that it was terrible. Had she been alone, she told herself, she might
have wept, for she felt like weeping. Then she knew that that was wrong
too. Had there been no children dependent on her, she would have gone
with Joe. But the children were here and she rose to the occasion.
"Tad," she called, "you and Barbara pick up some of that driftwood along
the river and bring it in."
She watched them as they left to do her bidding, her lovely daughter and
the son who was so like his father. Tad had the long rifle over his
shoulder and he would not go out of sight of the wagon. Every second or
so he looked toward it. Tad returned with all the wood he could carry,
two small pieces clutched under his arm and dragging a larger piece.
"Tad," Emma told him, "if you would leave the rifle here you could carry
a lot more wood."
"No," he demurred.
"Yes you could."
"No. Pa told me to watch over things and I aim to do it."
She almost smiled openly, but stopped herself in time. A daughter of
Missouri, she knew something about rifles and she had seen her son aim
from a jolting, careening wagon and stop a running buffalo with one
shot. Suddenly, though she could not help worrying about Joe, the
emptiness was not a complete vacuum and she no longer felt deserted.
This, while not normal, was no extraordinary situation. The Towers might
be here instead of in a proper house. Wherever they were, they would
take care of themselves.
The chickens scratched in the grass. Tethered in good grazing, the
gentle cow stood patiently while Emma milked her. She marveled. Though
the cow had walked all the way from Missouri, and could graze only when
the wagon stopped, she still gave almost a third as much milk as she had
given at home. Emma petted her affectionately. She was a very good cow,
one that would be of some use after they got to Oregon.
Tad laid the fire. Lying on the windward side, he shielded it with his
body and started the blaze with only one match. The match bottle he
corked carefully and put exactly where it belonged. Emma watched fondly
and a little wistfully. Some time, she thought, the world might be in
such a condition that an eight-year-old could be a boy without having to
be a man. Still, if there was any lack in his life, Tad did not seem to
be aware of it. He had been left with responsibilities, and he was
accepting them. And he fairly bristled with his new-found
self-importance.
The three youngest children had become a herd of stampeding buffalo and
baby Emma was the wagon they were trying to cut off. Young Joe entered
so enthusiastically into the game that he made himself the buffalo that
had bumped the wagon, and baby Emma took a seat in the grass. At once
the adventuring wagon became a wailing child who was gathered up and
comforted in Barbara's slim arms.
Emma baked bread, broiled buffalo steaks, and divided the milk, giving
each of the youngest children a double portion and Barbara and herself a
half portion. She liked coffee with her evening meals. But they were low
on coffee, she wanted to save what there was for Joe, and it was by no
means certain that they would be able to buy any at Laramie. Even if
some were available it would probably be expensive, for every pound of
everything except meat had to be freighted in wagons or carried on the
backs of pack animals.
Barbara and Emma washed the dishes, put them away, and Emma gathered her
children around the fire.
"Tell us a story," Alfred begged.
Emma had never been good at story-telling, and she felt a swift pang of
longing for Joe. "Let's sing."
She had a sweet and clear soprano, and Barbara's voice was as lovely as
Barbara. They sang "Yankee Doodle," the first song Yancey Garrow had
played for them and one Emma had learned at her father's knee. It was
the marching song of American soldiers in the Revolutionary War, and
Emma's father had fought in that war. There was discord at first, but
even Carlyle caught the rhythm and carried his end fairly well. They
went through the same song four times because the children were
entranced with their ability to sing it, and then Tad rose to peer into
the enfolding shadows of early evening.
"The fire should be out, huh?"