Spring

Spring was heralded by a soft and gentle south wind. It ruffled the

pines and stooped to caress the snowbanks. Crusted snow softened and

water gathered in every little ditch and depression. Ice melted from

Joe's log slide, leaving last year's dead grass brown and forlorn

between snowbanks. Walked on all winter, and getting the sun's full

force for half a day, the snow in the cabin yard melted and the younger

children could play there.

Inside the cabin, the door of which swung open so they could watch the

children, Emma and Barbara were mending clothes. A pair of Joe's

trousers in her lap, Emma's needle flew as she stitched a patch over a

torn knee. She had had some forebodings concerning worn-out clothing and

the availability of new cloth, but she needn't have worried. There had

been bolts of cloth at Laramie. Even Snedeker had some in stock and he

had assured her that most trading posts carried it.

Across the table, Barbara was mending one of Tad's shirts. Emma looked

at her daughter and smiled.

"It's almost the last one, isn't it?"

"It is the last."

"Good." Emma breathed her fill of the balmy air that came in a gentle

stream through the door. "Isn't this weather wonderful?"

"It's heavenly!" Barbara sighed.

Emma hid a smile. Barbara had walked light-footed and light hearted for

most of the winter, and nothing had worn a plain face since the night of

the storm. She saw beauty in everything, even the cabin's rough-hewn

rafters, and Emma had done nothing to mar her joy. Hurt would come to

Barbara as it came to everyone, but hurt, work and struggling were some

of the catalysts that fused a marriage. Emma worked busily on.

She was happy for Barbara and Ellis, but she knew that Ellis retained a

streak of wildness. That was not extraordinary; no young man worth his

salt is contented to plod along like an ox or a cow. Emma had been

pretty much satisfied with her son-in-law-to-be since Christmas Eve when

she'd talked to him and she felt reasonably sure he'd outgrow his

wildness, but she did not discount the possibility that Ellis's temper

and impulsiveness might lead him astray, or cause the engagement to be

broken before he'd had time to outgrow it. She laid the mended trousers

on the table and thrust her threaded needle into her apron front.

Barbara finished Tad's shirt and hung it on a peg.

"That's all, Mother."

"We do seem to be caught up." Emma glanced critically at Barbara's

mending and found it good. "But let me show you something."

She went to her trunk and from it took three partial bolts of gingham,

one blue, one brown and one tan, and unfolded a strip of each one as she

laid them on the table.

"What do you think of it?"

Barbara's eyes sparkled. She touched the cloth with gentle fingers and

stroked it.

"It's lovely! What are you going to do with it?"

"Housewives need house dresses, darling."

"But, Mother you've several now."

Emma laughed. "It's you I'm thinking of. You didn't suppose I was going

to let you come all the way to Oregon to languish in a cabin, did you? I

bought this from Lester Tenney two days before we left."

"Mother!" To Barbara every evidence that she would some day actually be

married to Ellis had a kind of magic in it, and she touched the cloth

again, a benediction. Life was full of the most beautiful promise. Even

the small threat that Hugo Gearey might come again to plague her had

been dispelled by news of his transfer. The future held no blemish.

Knife on one side of his belt, hatchet on the other, Tad came into the

cabin. He looked at Barbara with a smile that was half a leer, and Emma

knitted vexed brows. Tad seemed to derive a vast amusement from

Barbara's and Ellis's engagement, but what Emma did not know was that,

one evening when they thought they were alone, Tad had happened on Ellis

kissing his sister. He hadn't made his presence known, he had slipped

away as quietly as he came, and he had never told anyone. Why any man

should kiss a girl at all was beyond his comprehension. Why Ellis, to

whom Tad had looked up but who had since fallen several notches in Tad's

estimation, should bother kissing Barbara, was a complete mystery. But

it was a hilarious mystery and one that had furnished Tad no end of

private amusement.

"Hi," he said.

Emma said, "Tad! How many times must I tell you to wipe the mud from

your shoes before you come in?"

"Oh, yeah." Tad looked down at his muddy boots. "Well, I was goin' right

out again anyhow."

He scooted out the door and Emma sighed, "That boy can't sit still a

minute!"

She went to the door to see where he had gone but he was already out of

sight. The younger children, supervised by little Joe, were building a

house from stray pieces of wood that they picked up in the yard. Emma

looked down to where Joe worked, and for a moment her eyes dwelt warmly

on him.

She went back inside to cut the patterns for Barbara's house dresses.

* * * * *

Joe, Ellis and Jim Snedeker, were notching the logs that Joe and Ellis

had cut and brought in. An old man, Snedeker was by no means feeble.

Though not as active as either Joe or Ellis, he had used an ax for more

years than Joe was old and he made up in skill what he lacked in

agility. Though Joe was the best ax man of the trio, Snedeker notched

almost as many logs as Ellis.

Joe worked willingly, happily, for this was work he liked. But within

him was again a mighty restlessness and he kept his face turned to the

south wind. Every tiny variation in it became almost a personal issue,

for they had set out from Missouri to build a new life in Oregon and

nothing must interfere. When the snow melted grass would grow, and the

snow would melt if the south wind blew. As soon as there was enough

grass they could be on their way.

Near where they were working, a group of quaking aspens, their trunks

and branches already colored with spring's green hue, trembled in the

wind. A hare hopped among them, crouched at the base of a tree and sat

perfectly still. A happy canine grin on his face, ears pricked up, Mike

ran through the soggy snow to give chase and the two disappeared.

Snedeker rested his ax on a log.

"Wish I'd kep' count of the piddlin' little critters that dog of your'n

has took after, Joe. He has done naught else sinst you fetched him

here."

"He's been chasing them all the way from Missouri," Joe said. "The darn

dog's probably run far enough to get him to Oregon and back six times

over. But he hasn't caught anything yet."

"That don't stop his tryin'," Snedeker grunted. "Puts me in mind of a

trapper I knowed. He ketched more beaver'n anybody elst, an' when nobody

in the hul show could find buffalo, he could. But what he wanted was a

white b'ar. The place was thick with 'em, but his medicine wasn't right

for white b'ar. Ever'body elst run on 'em, but not Piegan Kelley. Got so

he'd rush through his traps, skin out his pelts, an' rush off to find a

white b'ar. Finally he found one. B'ar found him the same time. When I

come up the b'ar was layin' dead as a stone an' Piegan was almost so.

But he was grinnin' like a coyote that just ketched an antelope kid.

'Got my b'ar,' says he to me, I can die happy now.' He did, too. That's

the way 'twill be with your dog."

The aspen branches rattled more violently. Joe looked toward them.

Quaking aspen quivered even when all other trees were still, and Joe had

never known why.

"Why do aspens shake, Jim?" he asked.

"They're soft. I figger their branches ain't tight's other trees."

"That isn't the reason at all," Ellis dissented. "The Cross on which

Christ was crucified was made of aspen, and since then all aspens have

trembled."

"Whar'd you l'arn that?" Snedeker demanded.

"I'm just naturally smart. Besides, I saw it in a book."

"Book l'arnin'," Snedeker pronounced gravely, "don't do nobody no good.

Gives 'em fancy ideas in a plain kentry. You ought to tell the missus

that, Joe."

Joe grinned. Emma had been teaching Tad and baby Emma the fundamentals

of English, arithmetic, and spelling. It had helped her pass the time

and, in spite of Snedeker's ideas on the subject, it would help the

youngsters too.

"Your freckle-faced young 'un's comin'," Snedeker said.

Mike came racing back to leap on Tad. The dog frolicked around him,

wagging his tail furiously. Tad pushed him away and Mike fell in at his

master's side. Joe smiled. Mike hadn't earned his keep in Missouri or on

the Trail either, but it was a comfort to know that he was there and he

was a companion for Tad.

"Can I take the rifle an' go huntin', Pa?" Tad asked.

"It's pretty slushy."

"I'll mind my step."

"Well, go ahead. But don't go too far."

Mike padding beside him, Tad trotted back to get the rifle. Snedeker

looked after him.

"Ain't you scair't to let him tote a rifle?" he asked Joe.

"I would have been back in Missouri, but not here. He's learned a lot."

"Likely little sprout," Snedeker asserted. "I mind the time--"

Snedeker was off on a long, rambling story about a young Mexican they'd

found in Santa Fe and Joe listened with half an ear. Missouri, somehow,

seemed very far off and unreal, as though they'd never lived there

except in a dream. Oregon was the only reality, and they had already

covered a good part of the Trail. If they started from Snedeker's as

soon as travel conditions permitted, they would reach Oregon long before

those who started this spring from Independence. There would be plenty

of time to find land they liked, build a cabin, and probably to plant

some crops.

"--the kid went to Texas," Snedeker finished. "The last I hear about him

he's doin' right well for hisself stealin' hosses an' cattle in Mexico

an' runnin' 'em over the border. Joe, you ain't payin' me no mind!"

"Oh--Oh yes, I heard you. Jim, when can we expect grass?"

"Emmy-grants," Snedeker grumbled. "They light out for Oregon an' their

tail's afire 'til they get thar. Then they spend the rest of their days

milkin' fool cows an' steerin' a plow. I don't know why any of you

bother to leave Mizoury."

"The ground's softer in Oregon," Joe grinned. "It makes for easier

plowing."

"Pah! If the Lord meant men to plow, they'd of been born with a plow in

their hands."

"And if He meant them to shoot, I suppose they'd be born with a rifle in

their hands?"

"'Tain't the same thing. 'Tain't the same thing at all. Sounds like your

young-un's shot at somethin'."

Up on the ridge, the rifle cracked, and its echoes died in the distance.

Joe listened for a second shot but heard none. Twenty minutes later Tad

appeared, dragging a timber wolf by a rope around its neck while Mike

trotted proudly beside him. Tad panted to a halt.

"There was three of 'em!" he gloated. "They was goin' to jump old Mike

an' they didn't even see me! The other two cootered off like scared

rabbits when I shot this one! Plunked him right in the ear!"

"Was he runnin'?" Snedeker inquired.

"Nah!" Tad said scornfully. "He was just trottin'."

"Did you aim at his ear?"

"Sure. Figgered that'd put him down to stay."

Snedeker said dryly, "Well, don't be shootin' at my ear no matter if I'm

walkin' or gallopin'. You'll be a right handy man with a rifle after

you've growed a mite."

"You should have hunted something we could eat," Joe said.

"Don't be preachin' thataway," Snedeker protested. "Meat's to be had for

the takin', but wolf pelts ain't. Pelt that critter, cure the pelt, an'

some Oregon-bound emmy-grant will pay fancy for it."

"Do they buy such things?"

"They spend money for what takes their eye. An' what takes their eye is

ever'thing. You could sell 'em a full-sized steamboat if you had one to

sell. They couldn't haul it along, an' even if they could they wouldn't

know what to do with it in Oregon. But they'd buy it. Young'un, you mind

that short rifle in my rack?"

"Yes."

"Want to swap your wolf pelt for it?"

"Gee!" Tad gasped.

"Pelt this critter out an' the rifle's your'n, long with the horn an'

bullet mold. Bullets you got to mold yourself."

"Oh!" Tad was walking on clouds. "Can I have it, Pa?"

"Mr. Snedeker says so."

"I'll pelt the wolf right away, just as soon as I've looked at the

rifle!"

Tad dragged the wolf toward the store. Joe watched him go, then turned

to Snedeker.

"No pelt's worth a rifle."

"Not usually it ain't. But any sprout that size who can aim at a

trottin' wolf's ear an' hit thar can swap the pelt for a rifle with me

any time. It's wuth it."

Joe shook a puzzled head; he'd thought he understood Snedeker thoroughly

and found that he did not. However, the old man had conceived a great

liking for Tad.

The gentle wind blew all day, turning everything in a sea of slush. The

younger children had played outside until nearly evening because their

playing ground was reasonably dry, and Emma had been relieved of

watching them. She met Joe smilingly, and was gay, when he went in for

the evening meal. But not all her high spirits were induced because the

children hadn't harried her. Much as she feared the open plains, they

seemed less worrisome now, in the bland spring weather, than the

everlasting walls of their cabin. All winter long she had been confined

in or near the cabin, and now release was in sight. That promise was

borne on the warm wind, and in the melting snow. They had come this far

and Oregon no longer seemed a great distance away.

"It won't be long before grass grows," Joe assured her.

"I know. I can feel it."

The warm spell continued and every day more snow melted. Here and there,

where the sun shone all day long, a patch of bare, wet earth appeared.

The aspens sprouted fluffy buds and a flock of northbound geese honked

over. Emma's hens, that had been shut in their shed all winter, could go

out and scratch in the earth and they began to lay again.

Joe, Ellis and Jim Snedeker, continued to work on Snedeker's new

building and Joe knew that the old Mountain Man hoped he would stay

until it was completed. He said nothing; Snedeker had always gone where

he wished when he wanted to go there and he never asked any man's

permission. It went without saying that everybody else had the same

freedom of choice and he would not try to hold Joe. But Snedeker was

old. He could not erect the building himself and there was no certainty

as to when he would find another emigrant willing to trade his labor for

money or supplies. Snedeker needed help now.

Because he wanted to help him, and because he found in hard work an

anodyne for growing restlessness, Joe drove himself and Ellis furiously.

Ellis kept his mouth shut and followed Joe's orders. They laid sills on

the site Snedeker had chosen and used skids to roll logs on top of

them. When the walls were as high as they must be, the roof was made of

poles overlaid and braced with more poles. Joe showed Ellis how to split

shakes from a block of cedar. One blow of the ax did it, and though the

shakes were not uniform in size they were a better roof than the mixed

clay and mud that thatched the other buildings. Snedeker had covered his

roofs with the same material he used for chinking.

But, even as he worked, Joe fretted. The fuzzy aspen buds gave way to

tiny leaves, and only in places that the sun seldom touched did snow

linger in dirty gray patches. A pregnant earth was taut with labor pains

and about to give birth to all its fullness.

They worked from daylight to dark, but after they were finished Joe and

Emma could not stay in the cabin. The Trail wound past Snedeker's post

and disappeared in the west. At the end of the Trail was a dream come

true, and every night, hand in hand, they walked down it. In the

darkness Joe got to his hands and knees to feel for grass, without which

there could be no travel. Only when he had assured himself that there

was not yet enough did his soul know any peace.

Joe's impatience mounted and he controlled it only by working furiously

on Snedeker's new building. It was to be half again as big as the

present store which would become a warehouse for buffalo robes, and

Snedeker had made more concessions to comfort. In the post he and Ellis

slept on the floor, using buffalo robes as a mattress and more for

covering, but here there would be bunks. There was also to be a

fireplace in Snedeker's private quarters, and that was a real revolution

because never before had he had one. Snedeker and Ellis rose and dressed

in their freezing quarters at the post.

A good carpenter himself, Snedeker was working on the roof beside Joe

when Joe suddenly threw his hammer to the ground. In the pines a song

sparrow was pouring its heart out, and from somewhere an early-arriving

sparrow scolded. A covey of small clouds winged across the sky, and Joe

sat watching and listening. Snedeker stopped working and looked at him

curiously. Joe looked down at the greening grass around the post and

followed the Trail with his eyes. He said,

"Just figured something, Jim."

"Yeah?"

"The Trail isn't too soft and my animals are in good shape. They won't

need much eating for a while, and in another week the grass will be

tall."

"Yep. That's right."

"So we're leaving tomorrow."

"Wait a mite an' there'll be a wagon train through that you can jine up

with."

"We came this far alone. We can go the rest of the way."

"Reckon you can. Sort of don't like to see you an' your missus an' all

them kids light a shuck from here, though. The place has been right

sociable all winter long."

"Since when did you have to have things sociable?"

"Must be gettin' old," Snedeker confessed. "You know Ellis ain't lettin'

that girl child of your'n outen his sight? He'll go with you."

Joe looked gravely at the horizon. He had already told Ellis that he was

Barbara's father, not her master, and that he had no intention of

choosing a husband for her. But he worried greatly about the pair. Young

love was a glorious thing, a bright and glittering ride on a rainbow.

But all too often young lovers saw only the glitter and the rainbow, and

Ellis was still unstable. Joe thought of men he had known, Claude

Carson, Thomas Severence, Arnold Pulaski, who had been unable to face

the problems marriage brought and had simply walked out on their

families. Suppose Ellis married and deserted Barbara? The prairie was an

easy place in which to disappear. But all Joe said was,

"I figured he'd go."

Snedeker sighed. "If I liked farmin', which I don't, I'd go too. But I

don't guess I'd like it anyhow. Oregon's civilized by this time."

"You can finish the building yourself, can't you?"

"Yeah. 'Tain't naught to do but finish the roof, chink her, an' finish

the innards. Ain't no hurry nohow. Injuns won't be down for a spell yet

an' emmy-grants will be later. If I lag too far behint I'll get one of

'em to help me. Do you know whar you're goin' in Oregon?"

"No. I'll have to decide after we get there."

"I ain't tellin' you what to do, but if you want real good country whar

you can take your pick, thar's some a mite beyond Fort Boise. Preacher

named Whitman used to have a mission near thar until he an' ever'body

elst in the mission was kilt by Injuns, mebbe a dozen years back. Army

post, Camp Axton, not too far away. About half a day west of Axton

you'll come to a crick. Clear as a bell she is, an you can't go wrong on

account the white stones in the crick. Turn north on the east bank an'

you'll come to some medders whar the grass grows high's a pony's head.

Emmy-grants haven't liked to stop thar sinst the Whitman massacre, but

it's a good place if you've a mind to look at it."

"I might just do that," Joe decided. "How are the Indians now?"

Snedeker shrugged. "Like they allus are. You can get along with 'em if

you want to. Just let 'em know your rifle's loaded an' you can shoot it,

but don't shoot unless you have to. You, Ellis an' that sharp-shootin'

kid of yours won't have too much to trouble your heads about. Besides,

thar's goin' to be more emmy-grants findin' them medders an' a

settlement will go up thar. If you do like it, an' want to stake out

some of them medders, build away from the crick. She can be a real

rampagious thing when she gets high."

They climbed down the ladder. Ellis sawing apertures for windows, came

out of the building to join them. His eyes sought and found Barbara, who

was washing clothes on a bench beside the cabin. A little smile lighted

his face, and Joe thought curiously that, when he looked that way, he

was not at all like Percy Pearl.

"Tuck your shirt tail in an' hitch up your belt!" Snedeker called.

"You're shovin' off in the mornin', so let's get the wagon loaded!"

They started in the early dawn, while a light drizzle dripped from a

cloudy sky and wispy tendrils of mist lingered like the dresses of

ghosts in every sheltered nook and gully. Barbara remained in the wagon

to look after the little ones, and Ellis rode up ahead on King. The hat

Barbara had knitted for him planted firmly on his head, Snedeker stood

in the doorway of his post and waved good-by. They waved back, and all

were light-hearted and gay. Their stay at Snedeker's had been pleasant,

but they were going to Oregon and Snedeker would not be lonely for very

long. While the lost wagon hit the trail west, other wagons were

starting from various points on the Missouri. Snedeker would have

company and he would fit in nowhere except here.

They rounded a bend and Snedeker's post was lost to sight. Nobody looked

back any more, but only ahead. Ahead lay Oregon.