Overcome with a mumbled dissatisfaction, the lackadaisical fellow sauntered toward the door, shooting a glance at Cameron’s wallet when the latter paid for his tobacco. “I wouldn’t blame old Joe,” he called over his shoulder, “ef he never come back. Fer a wife you talk too much.” Then he slid hastily into the rain. Cameron, grinning, followed, tucking the kindling wood beneath his capote. He bent his head against a sudden onslaught of the storm and picked a way between the houses, now and then casting a wistful glance at the cheery lights that glowed from within. He passed the church a second time, and in five minutes was within the circle of wagons. The site picked for this day’s rest was indeed a miserable one. Half of the ground was overflowing with water; the rest was ankle-deep in mud. One great blaze shot up from the center, and lesser fires struggled by several of the wagon tongues. The families for the most part stuck within the damp shelter of the wagons. The burst of excitement had subsided; not a song rose above the splashing rain; not a cheerful word could be heard save from one small group of men near the big fire. There, surrounded by the newcomers, stood a plump, middle-sized gentleman, dressed in lawyers’ black and with a gray-shot beard and beaming eye, sheltered under an umbrella. It was Abernethy, the governor. “Rain? Bless you, rain does no harm in Oregon. But we have plenty of it. From October to May. As for land, God made the finest land and placed it in these valleys. But the best pieces near by are taken. You’ll have to scout around, go farther into the bench, or beyond Chemeketa, six and seven days’ riding.” Cameron rode on to a certain wagon in the circle where Old Man Follett struggled with a dying flame. He turned his mild eyes upward, and for the first time in all that two-thousand-mile trip the bitter discouragement was apparent in them. “Tom, whar’s mercy in this world?” Cameron drew out the handful of dry kindling and passed it to the elder. When he raised his head he saw Susan Follett watching through the front opening of the wagon. His mud-splashed countenance resumed some small measure of its gayety. Yet there was no answering smile on her clear, oval face; no welcome in the gray, spirited eyes; no encouragement in the manner she lifted her determined little chin. She was a frontier girl, born of a frontier family and having that fusion of elements in her blood which forever left its impress on all things coming under its influence. It was as if Tom Cameron had struck flint with steel and aroused a spark. Well, there was powder to put that spark in action. He was no lovesick swain. He compressed his lips and turned away.