It was a stirring tune and an inspiring thought, yet the woman’s voice cracked in the middle of the verse and went down a-wailing. Ah, it was weary and heart-breaking, this last stage of the trip! Where was the promised land, the lush meadows free for the preempting, the bountiful game, the smiling sun? Had they come so far to find so poor a welcome? Better by far the fever and ague of Missouri, infinitely better the crowded, dearer land of Iowa. Off to the right boomed the turbulent Clackamas. Tom Cameron wrung his mustache again and pulled a little aside to allow another horseman passage room. It was “Old Man” Follett, holding a dripping hand to a Websterian brow. The elder’s face formed an incongruous appearance. A bulging upper part harbored a pair of sweet, candid blue eyes, complemented by an undershot bull-dog jaw covered with stubble. “By Godfrey, Tom, ain’t there any sun in this cussed land?” A linsey woolsey coat hung like a meal sack from his shoulders. “My fambly’s all got chills. I ain’t been dry fer a week. Ef we don’t find Oregon City mighty soon thar’ll be some buryin’ to do.” “What’s Captain Bell say?” “Shucks, Tom, he ain’t no wiser nor you and me. Dang, sometimes I wish I was back in old Illinois. Ef I don’t find good land here I reckon the missis won’t ever look me in the face again.” A lank Missourian shouted from his wagon seat. “Land o’ plenty, hey? Thunder, I’m ready fer the turn around! I’d like to git aholt of the alligator who guv me the idea of leavin’ St. Louis! I’d put his haid in a tub o’ water an’ see how he liked drownin’. Got a chaw?” Old Man Follett moved on. “No, I ain’t. Ain’t been up to our wagon for a couple days, Tom. Another scrap with Susie? Waal, I reckon I wouldn’t blame anybody fer quarrelin’ this weather.” He was lost the next minute in the fog, leaving the younger man silent. There was no longer any savor in singing the song about Colonel Doniphan. The misery of the dank, skin-creeping atmosphere worked on his nerve. A draggled sight he made, but no sorrier than any other of the train. There was no laughter throughout the whole caravan; the flame of anger and personal grievance had burst out continuously in the past week. Elders were bickering over directions; young men going at it rough-and-tumble fashion behind the cattle herd where there was no hindrance to gouging or heel and toe. The Emory boys bullied all the rest. Tom Cameron pulled at his mustache and was warmed by a persistent anger.