The Lost Wagon Part 37

"You run away now, Daddy," little Emma directed. "We must get our fort built."

"Orders from a superior officer," Dunbar grinned. "I'd better report for duty."

Unostentatiously, Joe re-entered their quarters. He frowned worriedly as Emma looked up from behind her mending.

He said, "I found out about this Gearey. He seems to be no good."

Her eyes revealed nothing. "Thank you, Joe."

"We'd best keep Bobby away from him, don't you think?"

She smiled briefly. "There isn't any need to worry."

Joe looked at her in consternation. Then he said uncertainly, "I thought I'd better tell you before I go down to the stables. I'll be back in an hour or so."

"All right, dear." She continued sewing placidly.

Joe left with an uncomfortable feeling that, somehow, he'd been a little silly. He shook a puzzled head. Before she'd known anything about him, Emma had worried about Gearey. Now that she knew her suspicions were justified, she didn't seem to worry at all. Joe decided again that he never would understand women. But he comforted himself with the a.s.surance that Emma would handle the situation in her own sensible way.

Joe walked on to the stables. He'd shod both mules again, but it was easier here. Laramie had a complete blacksmith shop as well as a full complement of men who knew all about handling fractious mules, horses and oxen. Though she'd put up her usual fight when it came her turn to be shod, the mare mule hadn't had a chance. Both mules had new calks on their shoes, and that would give them better footing in snow.

At the far end of the stockade, surrounded by the usual crowd, Barbara was inspecting the fort. She, Joe thought, had had a wonderful time.

Emma had been happy too. Sergeant Driscoll's Latin wife, who had known the gaiety of Mexico City and the excitement of Santa Fe, was withering in this lonely place and she had seized eagerly the opportunity for relief that Emma's presence afforded. A pretty, vivacious woman, Ynez Driscoll spoke glowingly of the colorful places she had known and listened attentively when Emma told of Missouri. Emma's and Ynez Driscoll's backgrounds were worlds apart, and for that very reason each found the other's tales fascinating.

Joe reached the stables. One of the stable detail, a red-haired private whose name Joe did not remember, grinned at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Tower."

"Good morning, son. Can I borrow a currycomb and brush?"

"You don't need any," the redhead a.s.sured him. "We've already groomed your mules."

"Well--thanks."

"Look them over," the redhead invited.

The mules turned friendly heads and blew through their noses when Joe approached the stalls in which they were tied. The stable detail had not only groomed them, but had done so with all the painstaking care they'd have lavished on the colonel's horse if they were readying for a parade.

Every hair was in place and the mules' coats shone. The red-haired private, who had followed Joe, lingered a little way behind him and tried to be very casual.

"Are they all right?"

"They're fine. I'd say they're absolutely perfect. And I'm certainly obliged to you."

"It's nothing--nothing at all.--Uh--May I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Are you going to winter at Laramie?"

"I'm afraid not. We're going down to Snedeker's."

A concerted moan of despair arose from the stable detail, and Joe was surrounded by young soldiers who presented what they hoped was forceful argument. Laramie was bigger, better, and more comfortable, than Snedeker's. It had a lot more to offer; Snedeker's was just a trading post with the main store fortified in case Indians attacked. For that matter, suppose they did attack? Could Joe, Jim Snedeker, and whoever else might happen to be around Snedeker's post, defend Joe's family?

Snedeker's was lonely, too. Joe should consider everything very carefully, then do the sensible thing and winter at Laramie. Of course not, they answered indignantly when Joe asked if Barbara had anything to do with their fervent desire to see the Towers remain where they were.

They were merely thinking of what would be best all around.

Joe left the saddened detail and walked to the sutler's store. Money was hard to come by, and even with what Jake Favors had paid him he hadn't any too much. But money was not more precious than anything else, and just ahead was a season that, even in their leanest years, the Towers observed faithfully. Joe prowled among the counters. He bought an exquisite shawl that probably had come to Laramie from Santa Fe and to Santa Fe from Mexico. Careful, making sure that he was not observed, he tucked the wrapped shawl into a small box that fitted into his tool box.

After that he got Emma, and together they returned to the store.

They walked through the store while she chose Christmas presents for the children. There was a bracelet of hammered silver set with turquoise, another product of Mexico, and Emma bought it for Barbara. Thinking of Tad, Joe looked wistfully at the rifles. But rifles were expensive, they dared not spend that much, and Joe nodded approval when Emma selected a hatchet. There was a doll for little Emma, small bows with blunt arrows for Joe and Alfred, and a wooden horse, probably carved by some soldier and brightly painted, for Carlyle. They put the gifts in Emma's trunk, and then returned to the store for supplies.

The next morning, mournfully attended by every soldier in Laramie who could possibly break away from whatever he was doing at the moment, Joe drove his mules out the stockade's west gate and on down the Oregon Trail. Some of the soldiers trooped after them and Barbara walked with her swains. Regretfully, the escort turned back after Barbara had climbed into the wagon.

For two hours, following the track broken by the cavalry patrol, they traveled in comparative silence. After lonely, hard weeks on the Trail, they had sojourned for a brief time in the comparative gaiety and certain security of Laramie. Now they were back on the Trail, with n.o.body knowing what really lay ahead, and the thought was a sobering one.

Barbara did not look back. Her experience with Hugo Gearey had left its mark on her. For all his charm he had been disrespectful and--and nasty and--well, just horrible. Color rose into her face at the thought of his arm pulling her roughly against him, of his lips pressing, demanding--Oh, how she hated him now! Yes, hated him, _hated_ him!

Yet, as the wagon jogged along, the face that intruded again and again between Bobby and the scenery was none other than the face of Hugo Gearey.

Watching her daughter, Emma noticed that something had changed.

Barbara's eagerness for what was to come seemed somehow dimmed by the events at Laramie. She sat quietly, submissively, lost in thought. What was going on inside that lovely young head? Emma sighed. No one could guess, and least of all, perhaps, Barbara herself.

There was about a foot of snow. But though the weather had not been bitterly cold, it had lingered below the freezing point. There had been no thaw, and therefore there was no crust to break. The snow was still soft, and the wagon left deep ruts in its wake. The mules pulled steadily, and Joe swung them from side to side so that they might take turns walking in the already-broken trail left by the cavalry patrol. A pair of crows winged across the Trail, alighted in a solitary pine, and cawed raucously. About to answer them, Joe was halted by Tad's excited,

"Pa, look!"

To one side was a small cabin built at the base of a knoll, and as Joe turned a buffalo came from behind the knoll to stare curiously at the wagon. Another followed, and another. Then the rest of the herd came in sight and twenty-two buffaloes stood in the snow. Tad gulped, and looked longingly at the rifle, but they'd bought beef at Laramie and had all they needed. To shoot a buffalo now would be only for the sake of shooting something, and a waste of powder, shot and meat. Joe did not believe in that. The buffalo herd watched the wagon for a moment, then fell to pawing snow so that they might uncover the gra.s.s beneath.

Joe grinned, and he heard Barbara chuckle. Emma turned in the seat for a better look as they drove past. Sighting the buffalo brought back things that had been, and once again put them in tune with a roving life. The children began to giggle and chatter as they started a game. Tad leaned against the seat, staring intently at what lay ahead and on both sides, but saying nothing.

Rested, and on not too difficult a trail despite the snow, the mules set a brisk pace. Joe let them have their way, watching them only casually.

Mules had what some people--who knew a little about them but seldom drove them--called a sense of humor. Others, better acquainted with mules, knew that they were merely full of deviltry. They did delight in confounding their drivers but they liked to have the advantage of any situation. It was a lot easier to snarl a harness when they were hitched to a plow than it was with a wagon tongue between them, and they knew it. Only occasionally, when the driver became too lax, did they try any tricks when they were pulling a loaded wagon.

Mike, who had padded steadily behind or at one side of the wagon, bounced ahead suddenly. He bristled, and a deep snarl rumbled in his chest. Keeping in the tracks of the cavalry patrol, he ran about fifty feet down the trail and halted. Joe stopped the wagon.

"Call your dog," he told Tad.

"Gee! What's comin'?"

"I don't know. Call your dog."

Tad whistled. Reluctantly, stopping every few paces to look over his shoulder, Mike came back to the wagon. Joe handed Tad a piece of rope.

"Better tie him."

"Aw, Pa. Suppose--"

"Tie him."