The Lost Wagon Part 17

Joe had his forge and anvil set up beneath the tree. Barbara stood ready to work the forge's bellows and the horse mule was tethered near by.

Putting new shoes on both mules was the last necessary job before they could start for Oregon, but Joe was pensive as he prepared to go about the task.

For a while after deciding to go to Oregon, heightening excitement and enthusiasm of the older members of the family had communicated itself to the younger. Carlyle still wanted to know, at least fifteen times a day, when they were leaving and how soon they would arrive. Joe, Emma, and Alfred, had come to accept the journey as a matter of course. But Tad remained the only one whose spirits had not been even slightly dampened.

Leaving for Oregon remained a glorious adventure. But all except Tad had discovered, when it came time to decide just what was going with them and what would have to stay behind, that to break off an old life and start a new one would cause even more wrenches than they had expected. A house was big, and if another room were needed, one could always be added. But a wagon box had definite limitations.

Joe had taken the wooden handles from his hoes, rakes, and peaveys. Of his harrow, he was taking only the metal parts and he had even removed the wooden handles from his beloved plow. There was little likelihood that he'd be using some tools on the Trail and he could replace the missing wood when they got to Oregon. Even so, his tool box was filled.

They had to have an ax or how would they chop wood? He might need his screw drivers, awls, chisels, augers, wrenches, saws, any time at all.

They couldn't be made more compact than they already were. Naturally, the rifle had to be in working order. Joe had limited himself strictly to that which they could not do without on the Trail or would need for starting a new life in Oregon, and he sold or traded everything he could spare. It had cost him a pang to part with hammers, chisels, wrenches, and other tools which he had used so many years that their handles were worn to the shape of his hand. But he was more keenly aware of the sacrifices made by Emma and Barbara.

With an eye to Barbara's future needs, Emma had packed the wedding dress and a few other items which could not be cla.s.sed as utilitarian. For herself she had taken only her st.u.r.diest dresses and had packed only necessities for each of the children. As a final indulgence, and only after a deep inner struggle as to whether or not she was doing the right thing, she had packed the first pair of baby shoes each of the children had worn.

Helping her mother, Barbara had quietly slipped two of Emma's prettier dresses into the trunk and Emma had promptly removed them. Barbara had packed a battered rag doll that was greatly treasured by little Emma, a string ball that was Joe's play-thing, a set of fading wooden blocks with animals pictured on them for Alfred, and a bright picture that Carlyle adored. She had argued Emma into accepting these by reminding her that, though the children would have toys in the wagon, they would become tired of them. Then these could be brought out and they would arouse complete new interest.

Those were some of the minor problems. But there had been major heartbreaks too and Joe knew that only one of them centered around the stove. Emma was equally proud of an exquisitely made chest of drawers which probably had been brought to Missouri by a trading party sent out by the migrating Mormons. They had left the Mormon Trail and had come into Missouri for food, and because they hadn't any money they traded the goods in their wagons for bacon or grain. Joe had traded a shoat for the chest of drawers some six or eight years ago.

Emma said nothing about leaving it behind, but because Joe knew her he knew what it cost her to do so. Then, with sudden inspiration, he had pointed out that the chest of drawers could be lashed inside the wagon and would be a convenient storage place for the clothes they would need day by day. Emma had paid him with a grateful smile, but that was not what Joe thought about right now.

He'd been repairing the wagon when he went to the house for a drink of water. Chance had taken him past the kitchen window, and unseen by her, he had observed Emma sitting at the kitchen table. Arranged on it was all her lovely, delicate china. Joe spent an uncomfortable moment watching her adore with her eyes and caress with her hands the most exquisite and beautiful things she had ever owned. Then he had slipped away as quietly as he came, and when he went to the house an hour later the china was all back in the cupboard.

It had stayed there while the days pa.s.sed, and Joe said nothing because he could think of nothing to say. Emma was fighting day by day, wanting to keep the china and yet knowing that she could not. Finally, and only yesterday, she had asked Joe, all too casually, if he would take it over and give it to Helen Domley.

Doggedly, Joe continued his preparations to shoe the mules. He hadn't given the china to Helen Domley. He had carried it to John Geragty's saw mill, nailed a box together, tenderly packed each piece of china in sawdust, covered the box, and sneaked it into the wagon. Now he worried because it seemed that, somehow, he had both deceived Emma and cheated Helen Domley.

Barbara asked, "Is something the matter, Daddy?"

"Nope," Joe evaded. "Start the bellows will you, honey?"

Barbara hesitated a moment and Joe waited. The past days had wrought a change in his daughter, making her all the more difficult to understand.

At times she seemed to have a new maturity, as though she were already a woman, and at others she was a trembling child. But she had never expressed anything except enthusiastic interest in the forthcoming trip.

She began to work the bellows steadily, neither too fast nor too slow, and the smell of the hot charcoal in the forge was a good thing.

With a pair of iron tongs, Joe held the mule shoe he was fas.h.i.+oning in the glowing charcoal until the shoe partook of the fire's color. Still gripping it with the tongs, a blacksmith's maul in his right hand, Joe shaped the shoe on the anvil.

Some people didn't care how they shoed their mules; they simply nailed shoes on and let the hoofs grow out to fit them. Joe had never believed in such slipshod methods. He gave painstaking consideration to the temper and weight of the shoe, and the conformation of the hoof it was to fit. Correctly shod draft animals did not go lame easily and they worked harder because they were comfortable. Joe trusted no one else to shoe his mules for him.

He looked critically at the shoe, then reheated it and gave it a slightly wider curve. The mule's hoofs were nearly alike. But they were not exactly alike and each shoe must be designed accordingly. Finally satisfied, Joe plunged the shoe in a pail of tepid water and approached the mule.

The mare mule, at shoeing time, literally went wild. She became so terrified that she had to be dragged to the forge and roped and hog-tied after she was there to keep her from injuring the blacksmith. But the horse had a streak of vanity that took peculiar directions. He was proud to wear new shoes, and after they were nailed on he spent hours walking about to test them. Usually a full day pa.s.sed before he no longer gave his new-shod hoofs any attention.

When Joe approached, the mule lifted his rear hoof voluntarily and held it. He did it gracefully, taking all his weight on his other three legs and never at any time endangering Joe. Joe tried the shoe, and when he saw that it was a perfect fit he nailed it on. The mule swung his head to look approvingly at his hoof. Joe rose and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

Everything except the mule shoeing was done. The wagon had a new box, and all the parts that had seemed even slightly weak or worn had been replaced. They knew exactly what they were going to take along, and among other things they were going to take six of Emma's best hens plus a rooster, and there was a place for everything. New, double-thick canvas covered the wagon, and Joe had even arranged a canvas drop curtain so that, if it were necessary to camp inside, the male and female members of his family could have their own compartments. Joe had ninety-eight dollars in cash, and an uneasy feeling that it would not be nearly enough. But he did not know how to get any more.

As soon as Pete Domley came--and he should be here any minute--they could rope and shoe the mare mule. There they could start, and the sooner the better. Joe had dreamed of the Oregon Trail so many times that, if he wasn't on it soon, he felt that he would begin braying like a mule himself. He smiled at his daughter.

"I think we'll leave tomorrow morning, Bobby."

"Oh, Daddy! May I stay with Marcia tonight?"

Her lambent eyes glowed with pure delight, and Joe noted with approval the fire in her voice. Though it was not an unmixed blessing, Barbara felt all of everything that touched her. Her temperament, Joe felt, was not unlike the glowing fire in the forge. He said,

"It's all right with me if it is with your mother."

"Are you happy, Daddy?"

"Sure am! I--What the d.i.c.kens!"

Pete Domley's white horse had appeared on the path leading from Tenney's Crossing, but Pete was not alone on the horse. Ahead of him, clutched firmly in Pete's strong hands, was Tad. Pete was also packing a rifle, something he seldom did unless he intended to go hunting. He reined his horse to a halt beside Joe.

"I figure this is your business!"

"What's my business?"

Pete said firmly, "Tell him, Tad."

Tad's face was sullen and angry, with every freckle livid. He stared almost haughtily at his father and Joe's eyes narrowed. He said,

"That's my rifle too, huh?"

"Right."

Tad snapped, "If a man's goin' west he'd better know how to fight Indians. And I didn't hit him."

"That's right," Pete agreed, "but you couldn't have shoved a knife blade between the place where that bullet hit the wall and his head."

Joe felt hot anger rise. "Who did he shoot at?"

"He came into the Crossing lugging your rifle," Pete a.s.serted, "and before anybody could stop him he took a shot at Lard Head."

"I didn't take a shot at him," Tad denied. "If I had, I'd of hit him."

Joe said grimly, "Bobby, you go help your mother. Pete will work the bellows for me when we shoe the mare."

The girl left, not looking back, and Joe faced his son. "Get off that horse."

Tad obeyed, but his chin was outthrust and his eyes flashed. Joe flexed his right arm.

"Take down your britches."

Tad's pants slid around his ankles, and Joe grasped him with his left arm and turned his bare b.u.t.tocks upward. With carefully measured force Joe brought the palm of his right hand down, and the mule turned to look curiously on this strange scene while Pete's horse danced skittishly.

Tad's normally pink seat a.s.sumed a fiery hue, but he did not cry out.

Finished, Joe set the boy gently on his feet.

"If ever, except in your own self-defense, you shoot at another man, be he red, white, yellow, or black, you're going to get this over again and three times as hard."

Tears welled up in Tad's eyes, but his jaw was still outthrust and his shoulders were squared as he walked away. Joe scratched his s.h.a.ggy head in wonder.