Only one thing gave her strength for the parting. Only one thing gave her courage to make the long journey to the raw new state. Her love for Will. Abbie’s love for her husband had retained its sweetness and its ardor. And in her heart she knew that as much as she cared for her people,—as dear as were her mother and sisters and the old settlement to her,—they did not outweigh her love for him. If being with Will meant making a new home in a far, unsettled country, why, then, she chose to journey bravely to the far, unsettled country.

Abbie threw up her head fearlessly. “Well, we’re ready.”

“Good-by . . .”

“Take good care of little Mack.”

“Oh, Abbie, Abbie . . .”

“Mother . . . good-by . . .”

“Janet, dear, . . . Mary . . . Belle . . . Louise . . . Thank you all for all you did . . . Good-by . . . Yes, we’ll write as soon as . . . Kiss Grandma, Mack-baby . . .”

Will was boyishly gay. For the first time he felt free from “the folks,”—his own master.

“Well, here we go.” He cracked the long black snaky-looking whip. “We’ll come back rich.” He laughed in excitement.

The wagon lurched,—steadied,—moved on.

“Good-by . . . good-by . . . good-by . . .”

Hands were in the air,—a sunbonnet waved,—an apron was thrown over some one’s head. There was sobbing. Abbie’s hand was on her hard, dry throat. It felt as though it must burst. Stop the wind. Stop Time for a minute. The wagon lurched ahead.

Far back in the road Abbie could still see the little group, painted flatly against the white of the fence and the green of the honey-locusts.

Will’s eyes, full of the light of hope and courage, looked to the west. But Abbie’s, tear-misted, clung to the east.

CHAPTER IX

It was three weeks later, on a hot morning, that Will and Abbie and the other two families, whose land was to join theirs, broke camp, twenty miles out of Plattsmouth, where they had crossed the Platte on the ferry. The journey over western Iowa had been one endless lurching through acres of dry grass and sunflowers, thickets of sumac, wild plum and Indian currant. And now, save for the little clump of natural growth near the wagons, there was still not a tree in sight, not a shrub nor bush, a human being nor any living thing,—nothing but the coarse prairie grass.

The heads of the two Lutz families were brothers, Oscar and Henry. Oscar had a wife and three small children, Henry, a young bride and her little six-year-old orphaned nephew. Grandpa Lutz, a mild-mannered, gentle old man, had also come into the new country with his sons. They had traveled from Michigan, the two younger men by wagons, several weeks prior to the others. The women, children and the old gentleman had gone by train to Quincy, Illinois, where they had taken a river steamer to Hannibal, Missouri, crossing the Missouri to St. Joseph and taking a boat up the Missouri to Plattsmouth. There the men, having preceded the party, had waited a week for the boat to appear.