The Lost Wagon

by Jim Kjelgaard

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  THE LOST WAGON

  by JIM KJELGAARD

  _Jacket by Al Orbaan_

  _Endpapers by Gerald McCann_

  _Lithographed in U.S.A._

  [Transcriber Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  Dodd, Mead & Company, New York

  Copyright, 1955 by Jim Kjelgaard

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 55-7136

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Alma and Rob Zaun

  _The characters, incidents and situations in this book are imaginary andhave no relation to any person or actual happening_

  Contents

  I Pondering

  II The Discussion

  III The Destroyers

  IV Mountain Man

  V The Start

  VI The Party

  VII Independence

  VIII The River

  IX Storm

  X Snedeker's

  XI Winter

  XII Barbara and Ellis

  XIII Spring

  XIV The Mule

  XV The Meadows

  XVI The Farm

  XVII Besieged

  The Lost Wagon

  CHAPTER ONE

  Pondering

  When he had guided his plow halfway down the furrow, a bar-winged flyalighted just above Joe Tower's right ear. He felt it crawling, itspresence irritating through the sweat that beaded his forehead anddampened his temples, and he knew that he should swat it away. When itwas ready to do so the fly would bite him, and bar-winged flies drewblood when they bit.

  He did not raise his hand because once again the devils which, atsporadic intervals, tormented him, were having a field day. The fly wasa counter-irritant. He wanted it to bite. It was a time to be hurtbecause, after the fly bit him, there would be that much moresatisfaction in smashing it.

  At the same time he kept a wary eye on the mules. Though he wassometimes confused by the facts and affairs of his personal world, atthe moment he had no doubt whatever about one thing. He hated all mulesin general and these two in particular. They were big, sleek roan bruteswith an air of innocence that was somehow imparted by their wagging earsand doleful expressions, but was entirely belied by the devil in theireyes. Twice within the past fifteen minutes they had balked, steppedover their traces, snarled their harnesses and kicked at him when hesought to untangle them. He had escaped injury because he knew mules.All his life he had handled animals, and most of the time he knew whatthey were going to do before they did it.

  He felt the fly crawling around, and gloated silently as he awaited itsbite. He mustn't harm the mules because a man simply never hurt hisanimals. But he could swat the fly, and so doing he could relieve allhis pent-up anger at the mules and, this afternoon, at the world ingeneral.

  Not for a second did he take his eyes from the mules, and they seemed toknow that he was watching them. Muscles rippled beneath taut hides asthey strained into their collars and pulled as though they had never hadany thought except getting the plowing done. Joe Tower's already tensenerves began to scream. The fly didn't bite and the mules didn't balk,and unless something happened very soon, he felt that he would bereduced to babbling idiocy.

  Nothing happened except that the already hot sun seemed to become alittle hotter on his sweat-drenched shirt and his perspiring head andarms. But he had been scorched by so much sun and had sweated so manygallons that he never thought about it any more. Sun and sweat were apart of things, like snow and ice. Nobody escaped them and nobody coulddo anything about them, and Joe wasn't sure that anybody should want to.If the sun didn't shine the crops wouldn't grow. Or if the sun didshine, and there was no snow to melt and fill subterranean reservoirs,the crops wouldn't grow anyhow. This basic reasoning should be obviousto anyone at all.

  The rich brown earth turned cleanly as the plow wounded it, and thescorching sun burned a healing scab over the wound. Keeping intent eyeson both mules and waiting for the fly to bite, Joe was not one man buttwo.

  One of them felt a soul-filling peace. It was good to plow and to havethe nostril-filling scent of the newly turned earth, for these thingswere symbolic. The earth was a vast treasure house, but the treasure wasnot yielded freely. It was only for the strong, for him who could sweatand strain and guide a plow. Such a person was blessed beyond anyothers. But the other man who walked with Joe was angry and resentful.He did not doubt his own strength for he could plow as long a furrow aswas necessary. He did dislike the forces, the petty forces that hadnothing at all to do with plowing, which kept him from doing it.

  Joe's lean, six-foot body adjusted itself perfectly to the rhythm of theplow. Hairy, sun-browned arms gripped the handles with exactly the rightpressure, and there was something almost lyrically smooth in the way hecould, without using his hands at all, control the reins that werelooped over the small of his back. Gray-streaked hair that neededcutting and black beard shadowed a face that might have been thirtyyears old or fifty, and was thirty-four.

  To himself and his work he gave little conscious thought. He had plowedso many furrows that plowing came almost as naturally as breathing, andhe had long since ceased even to think about his own physicalproportions. What sometimes seemed an age ago and sometimes onlyyesterday, he had fancied himself as a dashing figure and very handsome.He had been nineteen then and courting Emma, and it was a foregoneconclusion that the world was not only to be their oyster, but that itwould be filled with the purest of pearls.

  That had been yesterday, and yesterday was lost somewhere in the hazethat every morning hung like a blue shroud over the low mountains thatmarched into the distance. This was today, and today meant work. Butsomehow, yesterday's dreams had not passed with passing time.

  Yesterday's dream had become today's dream, and it was made up of thingsthat a man might hope to possess--no unreasonable things, but ordinarythings, like a sizable piece of good land, owned free and clear; anextra team of mules; a flower garden for Emma to fool around with, andmaybe a small orchard down the side of a hill; some pretty clothes forEmma and for blossoming Barbara, and some toys for the younger ones; andmost of all, freedom from the never-ending uncertainty about meeting thenext payment. It seemed as though that shouldn't be too much for a manto want, yet most of it was still a dream.

  Joe blew his breath upward to see if he could make the fly leave himand, when it did not, he became angrier. He was almost always a creatureof the moment, and always the moments were filled with things demandingimmediate attention. To the exclusion of all else, this one centered ina team of fractious mules, a fly that must bite soon and a strong senseof restlessness.

  He came almost to the end of the furrow and still the fly contenteditself with crawling around his temple and stopping now and again tobuzz its wings or clean its fragile feet. Joe's tension increased and,had it not been for the anticipated senses of achievement that swattingthe fly would give him after it bit, he would have swatted it anyhow.

  They reached the furrow's end, he prepared to swing the team around, andthat was the second the fly chose to bite him. It was a sharp and suddenpain, somewhat like the prick of a needle, but the pain did not ebb as aneedle wound would have. The fly had pierced a blood vessel and wouldnow bloat itself with blood. Joe Tower's hot anger passed the boilingpoint but, where another man might have cursed, he said nothing.

&nbs
p; He let go of the right plow handle so that he could raise his hand andswat the fly. A surge of purest pleasure shimmered through him, for thiswas the second he had been awaiting. Just at that moment the mulesrebelled.

  Expertly, choosing precisely the right time, knowing not only exactlywhat to do but exactly how to do it, they stepped over their traces andswung away from each other. They plunged forward, dragging the plow ontop of the ground. Instead of swatting the fly, Joe grabbed the reinswith his right hand and pulled back hard.

  The steel bits took hold, and the mule's jaws gaped open. But they werehard-mouthed, and Joe brought his left hand to the aid of his rightwhile he fought back as stubbornly as the mules were fighting him. Whenhe finally brought the team under control, the fly was gone and only adull ache remained to prove that it had ever been.

  For a moment Joe felt weak and spiritless, as though he had conceivedsome master plan which should have worked well but which instead hadgone completely astray. Then, still eying the mules warily, hestraightened them out and swung the plow around.

  The silliness of what he had intended to do and the way he had intendedto do it, struck him forcibly. He had actually made serious plans torelieve his own pent-up feelings by swatting a fly. He grinned and for amoment he rested.

  His eyes strayed past the boundaries of his own farm to a green-cladhill where a little herd of cattle grazed. Joe looked wistfully at them.The cattle belonged to Pete Domley, and Joe had a sudden overwhelmingconviction that Pete was the smartest man in Missouri. Instead ofworrying about a farm, Pete had merely acquired a judicious assortmentof bulls and cows and let nature work on his side. Beyond the slightestdoubt, cattlemen had all the best of everything. It would be nice if allone had to do was cull his herds every season and sell the increase.

  Joe could not let himself rest for long because the sun was shining, theground was ready for working, and he had problems. He had bought hiseighty-five acres for $600, of which he still owed Elias Dorrance, thebanker, $400. This fall Elias would expect another payment. If Joe didnot get the field plowed and planted he would have no crops to sell andtherefore no money, and Elias was not noted for his willingness to wait.It was strange how things never worked out the way a man thought theywould.

  Joe had understood before they were married that Emma had not wanted toleave her father. Old Caleb Winthrop was a widower of uncertaintemperament, gentle one hour and abusive the next. Emma had been devotedto him since her mother's death, and she had been able to forgive hisharshness and his tyrannies because she deeply pitied his loneliness.She was even able to persuade Joe that old Caleb "didn't mean anything"and that "things would surely work themselves out" once they were allliving together.

  Joe had had his doubts, but he laid them aside, and after the wedding hegave up his small interest in a near-by farm and came to work for hisfather-in-law.

  Things didn't "work themselves out." Joe stuck to his job for five longyears, chafing all the time under the old man's constant criticism.Caleb had let it be understood that some day the farm would belong toJoe and Emma, but meanwhile it seemed as though there was nothing Joecould do right--or if he did anything right then sure as fate he'd doneit at the wrong time. Emma, who'd been able to tolerate the old man'svenom easily enough when it was directed against herself, sufferedagonies when Caleb would start to mutter and then to shout oversomething Joe had done.

  There had come a day when Caleb shouted at Joe a little too loud and alittle too long. Emma asked Joe to step outside with her, there wassomething she wanted to say to him.

  They walked away together toward the big tree over by the barn, and whenthey got there Emma turned to Joe and looked into his tired and angryeyes, and she put her hands on his arms and felt there the rapid tensingof his muscles as he clenched and unclenched his fists that were dugdeep into his pockets.

  "Joe," she said, "I was wrong. I should never have asked you to comehere to work for Pa." The color rose up into her face. "I can't stand itwhen he yells at you. Something terrible happens inside of me. I--I_hate_ him when he yells at you, Joe."

  He took his hands out of his pockets and drew her close to him, and sheput her head down on his shoulder and wept bitter tears. He moved hiswork-roughened hand tenderly over her soft hair, and he held her gentlyand rocked her a little because he felt she was trying to make adecision, a hard and painful decision, and he didn't want to influenceher one way or the other.

  When she quieted she talked again, blurting the words as though she hadto get them out quickly--while she dared. "We can't stay," she said."It's not right the way he treats you. And he won't change, Joe. Hehates the thought of you getting his land, and he means to make youpay--not in money or work, but in other ways. Mean ways. It's not worthit, Joe."

  A smile came over his face, and he held her away from him so she couldsee him and how good he felt. "I prayed to hear you say this, Emma. I'vebeen wanting to leave for a long, long time, but I waited for you tocome to it by yourself." He looked at her with all the love he felt andcould never quite put into words. "I couldn't go without you, Emma, andI wouldn't force you to come--more especially because I can't offer youanything away from this farm. I'll have to work as a hired man till wecan get together enough to buy us some land of our own."

  Emma put her face down against his shoulder, and the words that came upwere muffled. "I've got a confession to make, Joe. I knew you wanted toleave. I knew it a long time ago. But I was afraid to speak out againstPa. I guess I've always been afraid of Pa, not knowing it, thinking allthe time I just respected him the way a daughter should. But hearing himyell at you, I found out something I never knew. I can get mad at Pa. Ican get so mad at him that I'm not frightened at all any more. I couldwalk right up to Pa this minute and tell him we've had just aboutenough!"

  She lifted her face then, startled by her own audacity, and said, "Wantto see me do it?" And then, before he could say yes or no, she ran awayfrom him back to the house, quick as a deer. Joe chased her, and when hecame in panting through the door there she was standing in front ofCaleb with her eyes blazing, and saying, loud and clear, "Pa, we've hadjust about enough!"

  * * * * *

  For eight years Joe had worked as a hired hand for other farmers. Beinga menial did not trouble him at all, but he worried greatly over thefact that he was seldom able to offer his family more than the basicnecessities of food, clothing, and shelter. Within his inner soul was adeep conviction that they deserved more. A great oak could not flourishin a flower pot, and human beings could not grow as humans should ifthey must always be restricted.

  Last year Emma had overwhelmed him by producing $600 which, almost pennyby penny, she had saved over the years. Two hundred had gone into theland and $400 into things needed for the land: mules, cows, harness,the plow, the harrow and a host of other things which never seemed veryexpensive when one bought them singly but which ate up money whenpurchased together. Now this wasn't working out. Though a part of Joecould be perfectly in tune with what he was doing, another part resentedit fiercely. Good land was for good crops, and good crops were a joy tothe heart and soul. But Joe looked over what he had already plowed andseemed to see there a row of dollar bills for Elias Dorrance. He thoughtuneasily of the way he lived, and wondered if his sons and daughterswould have to live that way too. Then this feeling faded until it wasonly a vague irritation, and Joe became the complete farmer.

  He guided the plow down another furrow and another. It was hard and hotwork, but Joe licked his lips in anticipation as he forced himself toplow one more furrow. It pleased him to work as hard as he could, andsweat as much as he could, before he indulged himself because then theindulgence was appreciated all the more. Swinging back on still anotherfurrow, he halted the mules in their tracks and walked to a leafysycamore that spread its green branches where the plowed field ended. Hepulled a handful of wilting grass aside and revealed a brown stone jug.

  For two seconds, wanting to cheat himself of no part of this, he
lookedat the jug. Its earthen sides were beaded with little globules of water,and as it lay in the sycamore's shade it looked inviting. Joe knelt topick it up, and the jug was cool to his hand. He pulled the corn cobstopper and held the jug to his lips while he took great gulps of coldwater. It was part of the ritual, a measure of things as they must be. Aman who had never been sweat-stained from hard labor could not know thetrue goodness of cold water. His thirst satisfied, Joe put the jug backand covered it with grass.

  The day had been hard and somewhat frustrating, but it was with a senseof loss and resentment that he noted the long shadows of early eveningdraping themselves over the fields. The day couldn't possibly be ended,but as soon as he knew that it was ending he felt a rising pleasure. Noman had a right to rest while there was daylight in which he might work,but anybody with half a lick of common sense knew that you couldn't workat night. When it was impossible to work, the whole time might be givento dreams, and dreams were a very important part of life, too.

  Knowing very well that their day was over too, and that they were goingto pasture, the mules stood meekly and made no attempt to kick as heunhitched them. Free from the plow, they stepped along as briskly asthough they hadn't just finished pulling it for more than ten hours, andthere was something akin to friendliness in their eyes when Joe drovethem into the pasture, stripped their harness off, hung it on the upperrailing, and shut the pasture gate behind him.

  He turned to watch the mules frisk like a couple of colts across thegreen grass, then lie down and roll luxuriously in it. Not untiltomorrow morning would he have to fight them into harness again, andthat made him forget, in part, the trouble he had had with them today.He grinned at the mules.

  There was a soft footstep beside him and Joe's oldest daughter wasthere. She was slim and tall, and almost startlingly beautiful. Therewas little resemblance to either Joe or Emma; Barbara was there-creation of some ethereal being who had been in the family of one orthe other perhaps 100 and perhaps 500 years ago. She had been one of thereally awe-inspiring events in Joe's life. He was not naive and he knewthe ways of nature. But when he had courted Emma he had known only thathe was desperately in love with her and that he wanted her always at hisside. It had simply never occurred to him that they, too, should producechildren; he hadn't thought that far. When Emma told him she waspregnant he had walked around in a half daze for weeks. He hadn't reallybelieved it until Barbara's arrival.

  Joe said, "Hello, Bobby."

  She said, "Hello, Dad," and she added, as though it were anafterthought, "The chores are done."

  Joe frowned. At the same time, since he was tired, he knew some relief.Half the families around put their children to work in the fields assoon as they were big enough to pull weeds, but Joe had never liked theidea and he didn't hold with his womenfolk doing field work at all. Menwere supposed to work the fields, but almost as soon as she was bigenough to do so, Barbara had taken a hand. She liked to do things, andfor all her seeming slightness she was very strong. Just the same, eventhough he was relieved because he would not have to milk the cows, swillthe pigs, and do all the other things that forever needed doing, Joedidn't like it. But he spoke with the gentleness that Barbara inspiredin him.

  "You shouldn't be doing such chores."

  She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and Joe thought of Emma."I like to do them and it won't hurt me."

  Because he did not know what to say, for a moment Joe said nothing. Itwas unreasonable because a man always had the right to tell his childrenwhat to do, but secretly he was still more than a little overawed byBarbara. Then the silence became awkward and he asked,

  "Where's Tad?"

  "He--He's about."

  Joe frowned. It was a foregone conclusion that Tad was about becauseTad, his eldest son, was always somewhere. Joe thought of his children.

  After Barbara they'd waited seven years for Tad. Then Emma, Joe, Alfred,and Carlyle, had arrived in rapid succession. If Joe understood any ofthem he understood Tad, for the eight-year-old thought and acted a greatdeal like the father. A wild and restless youngster, Tad waswholeheartedly for anything he didn't have. As long as there wassomething he really wanted he was entirely willing to work like a horsefor it.

  Where the field joined the forest, a white and black dog of mixedancestry panted into sight and stopped to look expectantly back over hisshoulder. Joe stiffened, waiting for what he knew he would see now, anda moment later Tad appeared with Joe's long-barreled rifle over hisshoulder and a cluster of squirrels in his hand.

  Joe's anger flared. Tad loved to hunt, which was not unusual because allnormal boys did. But nobody eight years old had any business runningaround the woods with a rifle and more than once Joe had forbidden Tadto use his. Joe's face became stormy as the youngster drew near.

  "What you been doing?"

  Tad stopped, every freckle on his multifreckled face registering totalinnocence and his eyes big with surprise. Joe fumed. The boy was likehim and yet they were not alike. Never in his life had Joe facedanything in any except a direct way. He did not know how to pretend, asTad was pretending now.

  "Huntin', Pa," the youngster said.

  "Haven't I told you to leave that rifle alone?"

  "You didn't tell me today."

  "I don't have to tell you every day!"

  "I didn't use but six shots."

  Joe roared so loudly that the pastured mules looked curiously at him,"It's no matter if you used only one!"

  "I got six squirrels," Tad explained. "Mike, he put 'em up a tree andkept 'em there. I just shot. Smacked every one of 'em plumb through thehead."

  "Give me that rifle," Joe snatched the weapon, "and get in the housebefore I tan your hide!"

  "Yes, Pa."

  The squirrels in his hand, the dog beside him, Tad trotted toward thehouse. There was nothing meek or subdued in his squared shoulders andupturned head, and for a moment Joe had an uncomfortable feeling that hehad been tested by an eight-year-old. He scowled and shrugged thethought away while he felt a rising pride. Six squirrels with six shotswas good shooting anywhere, and young ones wouldn't be all they shouldbe if they didn't have a bit of the devil in them. He must keep therifle where Tad couldn't reach it, though. Maybe this fall, or as soonas he could spare a day from the fields, it would be a good idea if hetook Tad hunting with him. He really wouldn't mind Tad's using the rifleif he could be sure that it was safely used.

  Barbara went to close the chicken coop. The rifle in his hand, Joewalked to the spring house, leaned the rifle against it, and dipped apail full of water. He spilled some into a wooden bowl that stood on awooden bench and sighed deliciously as he washed his face and hands.This, the final act of his working day, was one to which he alwayslooked forward. It was as though, in washing away accumulated sweat andgrime, he also washed away the troubles that plagued him. The end of theday was almost like being born again.

  There was a new spring in his step and a fresh tilt to his head as hewalked toward the house. He remembered Emma, not too clearly, as alovely young girl. Now her figure was mature. Hard work, childbirth andworry had traced their own lines on her face. But to Joe there wassomething completely fitting and even refreshing about that. A treecould not forever remain a graceful young sapling. It had to grow, andbecame strong with growth, in order to withstand winter blasts, summerstorms, fire, and other hazards that menaced it. Joe found in the matureEmma a solid strength and assurance that he could not remember knowingin the girl, and with it had come a deepening love. He met his wife andkissed her. Emma stepped back and smiled.

  "Did you have a good day?"

  "It was a good one."

  Her eyes dwelt on the rifle, and her brows arched in question. "Did Tadhave it again?"

  Joe grinned. "Yup."

  He took the rifle into his and Emma's bedroom, and hung it high on twowooden pegs driven close to the ceiling. For a moment he looked at it,frowning, and then he was satisfied. He could reach the rifle but Tadcouldn't unless he had something to s
tand on. If he tried that, Emmawould hear and stop him. Still, the boy was devilishly clever when itcame to sneaking the gun out.

  Tad was outside dressing his squirrels, and Barbara had gone down to thecreek to gather a little knob of wild flowers for the table. As soon asJoe had settled himself in the chair, the four youngest children wereupon him. Joe reached down to lift baby Carlyle into his lap with theother three, and they cuddled there like soft kittens.

  "When I was out in the fields today," Joe began, "I met a big grizzlybear. He had a mouth this wide...."

  He spread his hands to show the width of the grizzly bear's mouth andhis fingers to demonstrate the length of its teeth. Gently, to theirsquealing delight, he tickled the four little ones and nibbled theirhands and feet to show how the grizzly bear had mauled and bitten him.

  Behind him, Emma stood at the window enjoying, as she did each night,the pure pleasure that Joe took in his children. She had loved Joealmost from the day she first set eyes on him, in the store where theyhad come together at the counter, she to buy calico for an apron, Joe tobuy some nails for the repair of a fence. Something about the set of hisshoulders and the powerful but easy way he moved caught her attention.Here was a man slow and sure and strong--slow of speech, slow to smile,but with an imp of mischief that could dart out unexpectedly from hiseyes. When the storekeeper had held up for his attention a small jug ofmaple syrup from a shipment newly arrived, and had inquired, "Like oneof these?" Joe's eyes had strayed to Emma and he'd replied, unblinking,"Sure would." Joe took the jug of syrup in his hand, hefted it forweight and again, looking into Emma's startled eyes, said "Sweet, nodoubt of it." Then, absolutely over-come by his own impudence, he hadslapped his money on the counter and run from the store, jug in hand,nearly falling over a box that stood in his path.

  She smiled now, thinking of that casual beginning. Their marriage hadnot been easy, but it had been rich in tenderness and in sharing. Thefive years that they had lived with her father had been troubled andbarren. Barbara's arrival had given them a center of relief away fromCaleb. Barbara had been like an oasis in a parched land. Their feelings,that withered and died in Caleb's presence, could grow and flower whenthey were alone with their baby girl.

  Joe had been bewitched by Barbara from the beginning. And each of hischildren had seemed miraculous to him in birth. He was a good man, agood father. True, there was a restlessness in Joe that sometimesfrightened her. He liked to work, but to work for himself, for his ownfamily. He had endured Caleb's domination with an inner rage that hadseemed like a bottled-up tornado to Emma. Though he managed to concealmost of it, the fury of it had at times been revealed in his bloodshoteyes and white, set lips, in the way he strode out to the plow or pulledopen the barn door--and it had caused a tight little knot of worry toharden inside of her. He wanted then, and he wanted now, to be on hisown, his own man. The obligation of his debt to Elias Dorrance satheavily upon him, more heavily than it did on Emma, because the furiousindependence that burned within him raged against the naked fact thatthe land was _not_ his own, would not be his own until he had paid backevery last dollar he owed on it.

  Emma sighed a little, wishing that Joe did not chafe so under his debt.If Joe were less restless, she would be able to enjoy even more fullythe home that in this one year had become so precious to her. Her eyesstrayed now from the little mass of squirming and giggling humanitygathered about Joe's knees, and she re-examined lovingly, for thethousandth time, every bit of furniture in the room. Most of it had beenmade by Joe, and they had talked about it and planned it for where itwould stand and how it would serve them. The little cupboard that heldtheir best dishes had been polished with such energy that it gleamed asbrightly as a copper pot. The curtains blowing in the soft breeze hadbeen stitched by Barbara and herself after the young ones were tuckedaway for the night. The lamps were polished, their chimneys spotless.Everywhere in the room there was evidence of labor and tender care. Emmaloved the room and everything in it. Her whole life was here in thisroom, with Joe, with her children. Life was hard, but it was rich andfull, and if Joe did not have these flashes of restlessness, it would bewell-nigh perfect.

  Barbara came in and put her handful of flowers into a cup on the tableand then, with quiet efficiency, she and Emma put the meal on the tableand the four youngsters slid from Joe's lap to crowd hungrily around.Tad came in, his face and hands clean and his black hair slicked backwith water. He carried the dressed squirrels on a piece of bark. Layingthem on a wooden bench, he almost leaped into his chair. Emma smiledwith her eyes and Joe smiled back, and the words they had whispered athousand times to each other were heard, unsaid but understood.

  Emma asked, "Did you get a lot done?"

  "Quite a lot. But those darn mules--."

  He told her of the trouble he'd had with the mules, but even while hespoke it seemed to be someone else talking. He could not understand itbecause it was past his understanding. To plow the earth and grow newcrops was always good. By such deeds people lived and had lived sincethe beginning. But....

  His every nerve and instinct, and his heart, told him that good land hadmagic in it. It had been maddening, as a hired hand, to be able to feeland touch this magic, and not to have it for his own. He had thoughtthat having his own land would change all this, but it hadn't.Previously he had worked for wages while his employer reaped the benefitof his labor. Now he was merely working for Elias Dorrance. As before,all he could offer his family were the basic necessities. Joe lookeddown at his empty plate.

  Emma's understanding eyes were upon him. She said, "Why don't you take awalk, Joe?"

  "Now say! I might just do that! I might go down to Tenney's!"

  "Why don't you?"

  "I think I will."

  Joe sought the star-lighted path leading to Tenney's general store,which was the center of half a dozen houses at Tenney's Crossing and theunofficial clubhouse for every man from miles around. Except for thechurch, which most men would think of visiting only on Sunday if theyvisited it at all, Tenney's store was the only meeting house. Joe lookedat the star-dappled sky, and he was struck by what seemed the oddthought that he had never seen stars crowd each other aside.

  Out in the shadows a bird twittered, and Joe stopped in his tracks. Heknew all the local birds by their songs, and he could give a fairimitation of nearly all, but this one he could not identify and itmystified him. He decided to his own satisfaction that it was a vagrantmocking bird that had uttered a few off-key notes.

  He was so absorbed in thinking about the bird that he reached Tenney'sCrossing almost before he realized it. By the thin light of anearly-rising moon he saw a man leaning at a slight angle against FrawleyThompson's house. Without too much interest he recognized a local Indianknown as Lard Head, a nickname he had acquired from a passion forslicking his black hair down with lard. Lard Head's other consumingambition in life was to get as drunk as possible as often as possible,and obviously he was drunk again. He was fast asleep standing up, anddoubtless he would go looking for something else to drink as soon as heawakened.

  Yellow oil lamps glowed behind the store windows, and Joe set his coursestraight. He saw Elias Dorrance come out of the store and linger in theshadows, waiting for him, and he felt a rising irritation. He dislikednobody simply because they had more than he, but he wouldn't have likedElias Dorrance under any conditions. Elias, who lived by the sweat andtoil of others, was an alien here in this place where most men lived bytheir own labor. The banker spoke,

  "Hi, Joe."

  "Hi."

  "Got your seeding done?" Dorrance asked casually.

  "Why don't you come see for yourself. Elias?"

  He brushed past and into the store, not thinking about the fact that hehad rebuffed the man to whom he owed money--and not caring. EliasDorrance was not being neighborly; he was just checking in advance tofind whether he'd get a payment this fall or whether he'd have toforeclose on Joe's farm. Either way it made no difference; no amount ofsweet talk would keep Elias from getting h
is due and no other kind wouldinsult him if he saw money in the offing. Elias was a sponge. Heabsorbed everything but had an amazing facility for disgorging whateverwould not benefit him.

  Joe put Elias from his mind and went into the store. A kerosene lampburned in front and another in back, and in between was all the amazingvariety of goods that a store such as this must stock. Lester Tenneysold everything from pins to farm wagons, and he always had exactly theright amount of goods. This was no coincidence, and anywhere except hereLester Tenney might have been a great merchant. He had an amazinginsight into his customers' exact needs. Nobody had ever had to wait forhim to put in a special offer or to bring goods from St. Louis.

  A tall man whose gaunt frame made him seem even taller, Tenney wasrearranging goods on a shelf when Joe entered. Wispy brown hair foughtdesperately for a hold on his balding head, but after the firstwondering glance few people noticed anything except Lester Tenney'seyes. They were clear and blue, and very deep, and oddly similar to twopieces of clear blue sky. The storekeeper gave Joe a friendly nod and acheery greeting.

  "Good evening, Joe."

  "Hi, Les. What's new?"

  The storekeeper inclined his head toward a little knot of men gatheredunder the second lamp at the rear of the store.

  "Bibbers Townley came back. For the past hour he has been enchanting wepeasants with his adventures in the west."

  "So?"

  "Go back and listen," Lester Tenney advised. "It's worth it. The wayBibbers tells it, compared to him Marco Polo, Christopher Columbus andDaniel Boone were strict amateurs."

  Joe looked with interest toward the men in the rear. Pete Domley, fivefeet two and taciturn, stood against the pot-bellied stove which, atthis season, needed no fire. There were Yancey and Lew Garrow, lean andsun-scorched. Joe saw old Tom Abend, wild Percy Pearl, John Geragty,Fellers Compton, Joab Ferris and Lance Trevelyan. All these men he hadknown for years, and the years had brought them closer together. Side byside they had fought forest fires, battled to keep rain-swollen creekswithin their banks, built a new house or barn for some unfortunate whosebuilding had been destroyed by fire, hunted and fished together. Not oneof them was the enemy of any other.

  Joe saw them almost as he would have seen his family, and he feltpleased because they were present. His eyes strayed to the young man whosat on the counter, with his right leg cocked nonchalantly over his leftknee, and he reflected that Bibbers Townley had changed very little.

  Three years ago, then in his late teens, Bibbers had left Tenney'sCrossing. But there had been some preliminaries attending his departure.

  For days preceding his final farewell he had absented himself. Hereturned riding a fancy thoroughbred with a new saddle and he had alsogot hold of two new Colt revolvers and an apparently endless supply ofammunition. For two weeks, the guns prominent on his hips, he hadswaggered around announcing to anyone who would listen that no hick townwas big enough to hold him. He was, he said, a man of parts and he wasgoing into the west where there was room for men. At the slightestprovocation, and sometimes at none, he had drawn either or both of therevolvers and shot at any convenient target.

  Joe edged unobtrusively up beside the Garrow brothers and looked withinterest at Bibbers Townley. Before Joe was born, settlers had startedgoing west. Four families from Tenney's Crossing had gone, and Joehimself had considered going. But a man didn't pull up stakes and movethat easily. At least, he didn't when he had six young ones to thinkabout.

  "And how do you think," Bibbers was saying when Joe joined the group, "Igot this?"

  He held up his right hand so the assembled men could see a white scarrunning diagonally from the base of his little finger across the palm tothe base of his thumb. There was an uncertain silence, and Joe sensed arising scorn among his friends. He chuckled silently. Tenney had toldhim that Bibbers had been talking for an hour, and evidently he had alsobeen lying for an hour. But he could still hold his audience partlybecause he interested them and partly because, never having been west,they could not completely distinguish Bibbers' fact from his fiction.Then,

  "You stuck your hand in the church poor box," Percy Pearl said smoothly,"and the parson had left his knife in it. You grabbed the knife insteadof the money you thought you'd get."

  Hot rage flashed the other's cheeks, and he braced his hands on thecounter as though he were about to jump down. Percy Pearl stood cool,unflinching, and Bibbers settled back. Nobody knew how Percy Pearlearned his living. He never worked and he never farmed and he was oftengone for long periods. But he always had a good horse and everythingelse he needed. However, since he never did anything questionable aroundTenney's Crossing, it was just as well not to ask questions. Rumors werecurrent that Percy was good with a knife and equally good with a gun,and nobody had any reason to doubt it.

  "Do you want," Bibbers blustered, "to make something of it?"

  Percy's shrug was cold as ice. "You asked me."

  "Shut up, Percy," Lew Garrow urged. "Let him talk."

  "Yeah," Fellers Compton seconded. "Let him talk."

  "All right," Percy agreed. "Go ahead and talk, Bibbers."

  "I got this cut," Bibbers said, sure that he had won an encounter whichhe had not won at all, "in a fight with Apaches. It was in Arizonaterritory...."

  For a couple of moments Joe listened with great interest to a lurid taleof a battle which Bibbers had had with eight Apaches. He shot six ofthem, and with the last two it was knife to knife. At that point thestory became so absurd that Joe lost himself in his own thoughts.

  Bibbers was a liar, had always been one. However, select ten groups ofmen from ten parts of the country and they would average out about thesame. The fact that any part of the country could produce its quota ofasinine braggarts was not necessarily a reflection on the country. Joeunleashed himself completely.

  Suppose a man owned everything on his land and the land too? He'd stillhave to work, but he wouldn't have to work until his whole insidestightened into a hard knot, and inner forces built up so tensely that heseemed ready to explode! When things got that bad, if it were not forElias Dorrance, a man could take an hour and go hunting or fishing orjust walking. Would it ever be that bad if land was something between aman and his God, and not between a man and his banker? Would it be badat all if he knew that his children were going to find opportunitieswhich they could never have here?

  Then there was the rest of it; the eternal wondering about the unknown!Wouldn't a man rid himself of that burden if he went to see for himself?

  "One time in Sonora," Bibbers Townley was saying, and Joe listened withlittle interest while Bibbers regaled his audience with anotherimprobable adventure. Joe stared beyond the stove, and saw only thevision that arose in his own mind. He broke into Bibbers' account ofwhat he had done one time in Sonora.

  "What about land," he called.

  "Land? Land, my friend? Do you want to know how they measure land in thewest? I'll tell you."

  Immediately he started telling, all about how he had staked out land byriding for three days straight west, then three south, three east, andthree north. Finally he came back to the starting point and all the landhe'd ridden around was his. Joe spat disgustedly.

  "You thinkin' of goin'?" John Geragty asked Joe.

  "I've been pondering on it."

  "So have I."

  Joe slipped away from the group and his feet were light on the starrypath. The curtains had parted, at least for the time being, and he hadseen the bright promise. He must hurry home at once so he could tellEmma about it too.