"I'm just telling him it isn't smallpox," Ellis asserted. "You know that
yourself."
For the first time, Major Dismuke was uncertain. As every right-thinking
soldier knew, regulations covered every situation connected with the
Army. But these were civilians, they might have a case of smallpox with
them, and he had no facilities to cope with a possible epidemic. For a
long moment he was completely nonplussed. He said finally,
"This is a United States army post, and it exists for the convenience
and benefit of United States citizens. It is our duty to offer you such
facilities as we afford. On the other hand, if you want to go on, I
shall neither detain you nor confiscate the mule. The choice is yours."
"Do you mean to tell me," Ellis demanded righteously, "that you will not
offer hospitalization to this sick child?"
Major Dismuke's nervousness became clearly visible. "Gentlemen," he
said, "I beg you to take the mule and leave camp."
"Well," said Ellis, with a fine show of reluctance, "of course if you
insist...."
"I will be grateful," said the major.
"Well, in that case," said Ellis.
Joe looked from one to the other in honest amazement. Never had he seen
a ticklish situation so quickly resolved.
But what about payment? "Look here, Major," he said, "if you'll just
tell me how much you want for this--"
"The Army doesn't sell mules," Major Dismuke barked.
"Regulations," said Ellis politely.
The major threw him a sharp look. Then he added some hasty advice.
"It is my duty to advise you that the Indians in this section are
restless. If you go on, you risk meeting hostiles."
"We'll still go on," said Ellis.
Major Dismuke halted and when they had drawn away from him Ellis said
softly, "Sorry, Joe, but we have to get out of here."
"Yes, we have to get out."
"It wasn't really a lie."
"Ellis, let's face it. It was a lie. But we had to tell it. As soon as
we get set, we're sending that mule back."
"All right with me. But let's get set."
The youngsters scrambled back into the wagon. Joe untied the team and
climbed up on the wagon seat. He was not happy, for the baby was still
feverish, but he was relieved. Emma wouldn't care to stay anywhere near
this fort as long as the baby was ill. It was too rough, and the wagon
was better. Somehow and somewhere Joe would get another mule and send
this one back. He shook his head. Ellis's quick wit in raising the
smallpox scare had averted what would have been an intolerable
situation.
They stopped for lunch, and drove on. Ellis rode ahead to scout and
Joe's sick heart throbbed when the baby babbled in delirium. A few
minutes later, Emma spoke softly,
"Joe, we must stop. She's very bad."
He was about to swing the mules to one side of the Trail when Ellis rode
back. Ellis swung his horse in beside the wagon and looked up at Joe.
"How is the youngster?"
"Emma says bad. We have to stop."
"There's a good creek about a quarter mile ahead and a meadow only a
little ways up the creek. It's a better place than this if we're going
to camp."
"Hear that, Emma?" Joe called. "Want to go there?"
She said, "I think it will be better. There'll be no interruptions if
we're off the Trail."
The mules plodded down the Trail to the creek. Sparkling, clear and
cold, it trickled out of a shallow little gully and flowed across the
Trail to lose itself in trees on the other side. The west bank was
tree-lined, but tall grass grew on the east bank and laid a soft carpet
back to the line of trees. Joe saw trout lingering in a pool.
Ellis swung his horse from the Trail up a grassy embankment. "Follow
me," he called. "The wagon can get up here."
The mules walked unhesitatingly after him, and Joe held them to a slow
walk in order that the wagon might take gently any hidden obstructions.
Tall wild grass brushed the bellies of the mules and of Ellis's horse. A
cool and gentle breeze breathed down the creek, and ruffled the slender
tops of trees on the west side. The wagon listed a little, and there
came the rattle of a falling bucket.
As they proceeded upstream, the meadow widened and the trees on the west
bank gave way to grass. Save for one towering pine that grew halfway
between the creek and the forest on top of the gently sloping hill, as
far as Joe could see there was only meadow land. Three nervous cow elk,
probably with calves hidden somewhere back in the forest, edged
cautiously out of sight. Joe guided his team to the big pine's shade and
stopped. He turned to Emma.
He unhitched and picketed the mules while Tad tied a picket rope to the
cow and staked her in tall grass. Used to traveling, and accustomed to
grazing different grounds every night, all three animals fell to
cropping grass. Though the Oregon Trail was only a few hundred yards to
the south, for centuries these meadows had been the haunt of wild
things. Probably an occasional horseman had ventured here, but as far as
Joe knew theirs was the first wagon that had ever come up the creek. He
took a moment to look around, and breathed deeply of the pine-scented
air. Jim Snedeker had known what he was talking about when he spoke of
nice country.
Ellis swung Emma's crate of poultry to the ground and opened the gate.
The rooster jumped to the top of the crate, flapped his wings, and
crowed lustily. Four of the hens scurried here and there in the grass,
catching bugs and picking up fallen seed. The other two, wings spread,
clucked fussily and avoided the rest. Those two were broody and had been
for more than a week. Even confinement in the crate and traveling all
day was not enough to make them forget age-old instincts. One of them
stalked secretively into the grass, searching for a place to nest.
Joe took his snath from the place where it had lain since they left
Missouri and fitted a scythe to it. He tested the blade with his thumb,
and through the coating of grease that covered it and prevented its
rusting he felt its keenness. With a hand full of grass he wiped the
scythe clean and went to work.
Strength flowed into his arms, and in spite of the pall that overhung
all of them he felt a little song spring into his heart as he mowed the
first swath of grass. There had been times when he wondered seriously if
the long Trail would not make him forget all he had known about farming,
but he fell automatically into the rhythm of what he was doing. The
scythe ceased to be a mere tool and became a part of him as grass
toppled beneath his attack. He mowed to the big pine, and all around it,
then kicked together armfuls of soft grass and arranged it in a pile.
Joe covered the bed with a buffalo robe and went to the wagon.
"Bring her out now," he said gently.
Baby Emma lay weak and listless in her mother's arms, lacking either the
strength or the will to hold her head erect. But hope sprang anew in
Joe's mind and his heart was not quite so leaden. The child smiled at
him, and she had not done that earlier. Joe took his wife and daughter
to the couch he had made them and watched Emma lay the baby down. He
looked again at her flushed cheeks and dull eyes, and wished mightily
that he knew as much about sick babies as he did about driving mules.