Joe heard Emma crooning to her sick daughter. "They can go on," he said.
He drove to the top of the rise, halted again, and handed the reins to
Tad.
"Hang on to them, will you?"
He took the pail from the wagon and milked. The cow stood patiently and
let him do it, then backed to the full length of her lead rope and
looked at him questioningly. It was time to camp and the cow knew it,
but Joe merely petted her and handed the milk up to Barbara.
"Can you feed the youngsters and yourself in the wagon?"
"Yes, Daddy. We'll have milk and there's buttered biscuits left."
"Good." Joe looked at his wife. "How is she?"
Hollow-eyed, Emma looked back at him.
"Very feverish. Is there any chance of getting out of the storm?"
Little Emma's cheeks were almost translucent, and she twitched in her
sleep. Joe swallowed hard, and again had a strange feeling that angels
must look this way. Joe forced cheer into his voice.
"We'll be in Laramie soon. Don't you worry."
Snow was falling faster; the tracks they'd made coming up the rise were
half filled and there was no indication that the storm would lessen. Joe
took the reins from Tad and the weary mules plodded on. Joe tried to
peer down the Trail and could see only a few feet, but that was not
because of heavy snow. Night was coming. Joe stopped the mules again.
"Reckon you could keep them moving?" he asked Tad.
"I reckon. What are you goin' to do, Pa?"
"Make darn' sure we stay on the Trail."
Joe handed the reins to Tad and leaped from the wagon into the
snow-filled twilight. Mules had an instinct for the trail. But men had a
keener one and to get lost now might be fatal. Joe walked to the head of
the team, and the mules flicked their long ears forward while they
sniffed him anxiously. They, too, knew that it was past the time to
stop. Joe turned his back to the team and called to Tad,
"All right."
He walked fast enough to keep ahead of the laboring team, and his heart
caught in his throat because he had to set a very slow pace. The mules
were straining hard to do work that under ordinary circumstances would
not have been excessive. The night was wholly black now.
Joe stopped suddenly, aware that they had come to another river only
because he heard the soft purling of water. Two more steps and he would
have walked into it. His heart pounded, and he trembled. John Gaystell
had spoken of the Laramie River, and had said that it could be forded.
Suppose there was another river that could not be forded, one Gaystell
hadn't mentioned? Joe hesitated, then got his rifle.
He stood on the river bank, pointed the rifle straight up and, when he
shot, the muzzle blast illumined only falling snow. Too weary to do
anything else, the mules only started nervously when the rifle roared.
Joe listened intently, keeping his mouth open the better to hear. Then,
after what seemed like hours and could have been no more than fifteen
seconds, in the distance he heard an answering shot. Ten minutes later a
hail sounded out in the darkness.
"Hall-oo!"
"Hall-oo!" Joe called back.