He staggered to the warm corner by the fire, where Spot told him to go, and was soon dead to the world.

——— Chapter Thirteen ———

MR. GRIMES AND FRANCIS stayed with Spot Johnnie for three days. They had meant to leave sooner, but things kept happening. First there was a joke shooting match between Mr. Grimes and Spot—a joke match because neither of them really tried to win. All they did was trick shooting; kind of show-off stuff, Francis thought. Like Spot throwing a piece of mud in the air, then stooping to pick up his rifle and shooting the mud before it hit the ground. And Mr. Grimes shooting a big rock over five hundred yards away, hitting it three times in a row.

Then the shooting match led to a wrestling match, and the wrestling match led to a giant dinner and warm sun to lie around in and a swim down in the creek by the stable, and before Francis really thought about it at all, three days had disappeared. On the morning of the fourth day, they rose early, packed the mules, and started out.

They were about half a mile from the buildings when they saw the wagons. Mr. Grimes saw them first, as usual.

“Farmers, Mr. Tucket,” he said, pointing back past Spot Johnnie’s place. Two wagons were visible coming down into the valley, crawling along. They were a good three miles away, but Francis could make out the men walking alongside the oxen. “It could be your chance—if they’re going to Oregon. Most likely they are.”

Francis didn’t understand at first. He wasn’t really thinking of himself in connection with wagons. And when he finally caught the mountain man’s meaning, somehow it made him feel sad. Still, he nodded. “I guess so—that is, if they wouldn’t mind taking a boy along.”

“I think they’d probably be happy to have that extra gun,” Mr. Grimes said, “especially if Braid’s going to do some kicking up.”

There was a long moment. The morning sun caught the mare’s mane and made it look almost blue. And how would you like to slow down to ten miles a day, little mare? Francis found himself thinking. How would you like to eat oxen dust and be tied with other horses at night? He looked again at the wagons. There were five showing now—five plodding wagons settled into the ruts across the prairie.

And he didn’t want to be with them; not with the dust and the slow wagons and all the people carrying punch bowls. There was more to it now—more than if he were just another train boy. He knew more. He knew Indians, and how to shoot, and how to wrestle—

“You sure do seem to be in powerful thought, Mr. Tucket,” Mr. Grimes cut in. “A man would think you’re having trouble making up your mind …”