The black mule was a big, powerful animal and a willing worker. Like all
mules, he had his own ideas and regardless of what the driver liked he
would put them into effect if an opportunity presented. For the most
part he was tractable, though Joe knew enough about mules to know that
any of them would kick unexpectedly and he watched himself when hitching
or unhitching. In addition, the black fitted in perfectly with the other
horse mule. He lacked the horse's rugged character and was willing to
follow his lead. He was an ideal replacement for the dead mare.
Nevertheless, Joe worried a great deal about the mule. It belonged to
the army, and they must go to Camp Axton to return it. Joe had a hunch
the army would take a dim view of anyone found with one of their mules.
Likely they'd be able to convince the commandant that they were not
themselves mule thieves. The real problem, though, was that the army was
always on the lookout for more mules, but didn't sell any.
He confided his worries to Ellis one night after the children were
asleep and Barbara and Emma were washing dishes by the fire's leaping
light.
"First off," he said, "it's going to take them some time while they
investigate us to make sure we're not rustlers. Then it's going to take
some more time until someone else comes through that can sell us a mule.
And meanwhile the best plowing and planting time is getting away from us
every day that we wait."
"They'll sell us an army mule," Ellis said, with the bland optimism of
youth.
"Not a chance," said Joe glumly. "Those army men are only interested in
one thing--regulations."
"Just the same," said Ellis, "we can explain to them about plowing and
planting time. Obviously we can't make a crop if we can't reach our land
on time. Even an Army man can understand that."
"Army regulations," said Joe, "do not concern themselves with the
planting time of strangers."
Ellis chuckled. "Army men can be human, like anybody else." He smiled
softly, because Barbara had just slipped over into the circle of his
arm. "I'm for looking on the bright side of things," he insisted.
"Naturally," Joe grinned. He left them and walked over to the wagon. By
the fire's light he examined the plow. Joe ran his fingers over the
implement, and in his soul felt a vast longing to take it off and use
it. A plow meant to him what a rifle meant to Jim Snedeker. It was part
of his life, a tool he had been born to use. Joe left the wagon and sat
on a block of firewood very close to Emma. Emma's face was upturned to
the sky, and she breathed deeply of the fragrant prairie breeze. Joe's
hand stole out to hers, and she turned eagerly to him.
"It's like being born again, isn't it?"
"Are you glad we came, darling?"
"Oh, yes I am! Now I am! Lots of times along the way I had regrets. And
then, I was cowardly at the beginning."
"Cautious," Joe corrected.
"No, _cowardly_," insisted Emma. "Afraid to take a chance on anything.
We took such a big chance, starting so late, with all the children. But
Joe! I wouldn't undo it, not a single moment of it, not even the moments
when I was miserable and angry and scared half to death! It's taught me
so much about--about what courage can do." She turned to him. "I want to
say something from the bottom of my heart, darling. I wouldn't have come
if you hadn't _made_ me come. And now, Joe, I want to thank you for
making me come. Thank you, Joe." Her eyes were swimming. He laughed deep
in his chest and blotted up her happy tears tenderly with the corner of
her own kerchief.
"You weren't the only one who was scared half to death," he said simply.
"I had a lot to learn about courage, too."
She put her head down on his shoulder and he drew her close. They sat,
in harmony, watching the dying fire and making plans. Not far away sat
Barbara and Ellis, clinging together, making their own plans, thinking
ahead to their own home and their own children.
Inside the wagon, baby Emma cried out and they heard her turning
restlessly in her sleep. The child cried again, and alarm mounted in
Joe. He loosed Emma's hand and turned to listen. Emma spoke softly,
"She's been very fretful since noon, and didn't you notice that she ate
very little?"
"No," and somehow Joe felt a great shame because of the admission. "I
didn't. Is it the same fever?"
"Not yet, but I'm afraid it will be."
"It always came on in a snap of the fingers before."
"I know. But this is a little different."
They sat silently, the happiness they had known tempered by melancholy.
Oregon was a bright, shining promise, a new land where they could build
a new life and leave the withered husks of the old one behind. So far it
had given something to Barbara, something to Tad, and it would have
something for Joe and Emma and the other three children. Of them all,
only a wisp of a child must still bear the same cross she had borne in
Missouri. Joe shivered. This was a good country but it was also one
where violence could reign. He said with a confidence that he did not
feel,
"I don't believe it's anything much."
"I hope not!"
But the next morning, when Joe got up and peered behind the curtain,
Emma sat with her back braced against the trunk, holding the child in
her arms. Baby Emma's cheeks were blazing, her eyes dull and listless.
She looked at her father, but the smile that usually flashed across her
whole face when she greeted him in the morning was absent now.
Joe turned away from the wagon and built a fire so Barbara could prepare
breakfast. A mighty weariness rode his shoulders, and a great
despondency. He ate without tasting the breakfast Barbara made, and
helped her wash the dishes. Ellis stood helplessly near, without the
least idea of what must be done in a situation such as this one. Only a
woman's wisdom and tenderness could cope with it. Ellis saddled his
horse, glad to be doing something.
"I'll go down the Trail a ways and scout what's ahead."
He looked wistfully at Barbara, but she shook her head. Her mother, busy
with a sick child, would have time for nothing else. She must have as
much peace as it was possible to find inside the cramped wagon, so
Barbara would watch the other three youngsters. Ellis must ride alone
today. She watched him ride his horse down the Trail.
Joe harnessed the mules, hitched them, and climbed into the wagon seat.
It was lonely, forlorn, because Emma was not beside him. For the first
time in days the Trail was a tedious one, utterly lacking in inspiration
and joy. Joe drove the mules at a fast walk. Two hours later Ellis rode
back up the Trail and reined in beside the wagon.
"The camp's ahead," he called. "I told them you were coming."
"What did they say?"
"We're to see the commander, Major Dismuke."
The camp was built on top of a hill, probably for better defense, and
the timber around it had been cleared. Primitive compared to Laramie's
splendor, Camp Axton consisted of log buildings and a log stockade.
There were a few tents, probably erected by recently arrived troops
because the camp itself did not have accommodations for them. But the
flag waved proudly and the sentry at the gate was very brisk and
military. He stood aside to let them enter.
For a moment, Joe wished mightily that Sergeant Dunbar could be here.
Dunbar, who knew the army, would probably know how to cut any red tape
that might be involved and certainly he'd know just what to do. But
Dunbar wasn't here and Joe had to do the best he could. He drove to a
single big pine that had been allowed to stand inside the stockade and
brought his team to a halt in its shade. He tied them to an iron ring
imbedded in the tree for that purpose, and looked back at Emma. Her face
was taut with anxiety.
"She's very warm, Joe. I'll stay with her. Barbara can let the
youngsters out to stretch their legs."
"Keep them near the wagon, will you?" Joe addressed his daughter. "We'll
be back as soon as possible."
"Yes, Daddy."