Down went the head until a geyser of water shot up and a strangled cry emerged. Cameron yanked the poll up a second time. The apology was offered in wheezing syllables. Cameron released his grip, sprang up and watched for further aggressiveness. Emory was in no condition to do added damage. His mouth and eyes were plugged and plastered; not until some kind one thrust him through the crowd to his brothers could he find his bearings. Cameron was not in much better shape. The governor’s eyes beamed. “Looks like you were an alligator from some Louisiana swamp. I’ve seen much fighting but your style is most entertaining and least sanguine.” It furnished a moment’s diversion in a dreary day and put the people in higher humor as they plowed off to their respective wagons. Follett pointed to the creek. “Reckon you’d best hunt out a quiet spot and take a swim, Tom.” From the wagon’s seat came a bitter voice. “You bully! Do you think a fight settles anything? Shame for such a disgraceful scene! If it were me I’d be hiding my face!” Cameron met Susan’s disapproving eyes and slapped a hand to his countenance, wiping off some of the mud. “Ain’t it hid?” he asked. “Durned if I don’t think so.” “Shame on you! If I were a man I’d----” “Be fightin’ too,” finished Tom grimly. “That’s the best thing you an’ I do.” “Susie, git back in that wagon,” ordered Old Man Follett. “When it comes time for womenfolk to mix in men’s doin’s I’ll say so.” He watched his daughter’s head disappear and turned with a pessimistic gesture. “Waal, now, whar are we? All the best land gone hereabouts. Another week’s journey in this cussed weather an’ no prospect then of hittin’ the right place. I’m an old fool.” Tom picketed his horse and waded through the rain. The creek left the wagons and dropped over a rock declivity to the river. At the mouth was a kind of cove with the rain fog curtaining it from the houses. Cameron stripped and washed his buckskin suit. A half hour later he was in the street again, wringing wet but at least clean. There was a stove in the store he had first entered, and toward this he moved. “Hey, pardner, wait a minute.” He turned upon a figure sloshing through the mud. When the man was nearer, Cameron saw it to be the same individual he had met in the store arguing with the woman; tall, loose-jointed, stubble-faced and with a chaw of tobacco bulging in one jaw. “Have some? Waal, say, I see you’re from the wagon train. Reckon you’ll be lookin’ fer land. Mebbe Abernethy’s done told you it’s harder pickin’ than it used to be? Shore it is. You’ll be travelin’ plumb past Chemeketa--mebbe even as fur as the Calapooia range, afore you find anything onless yore real lucky. I’m an old-timer hyar, and I know a smart leetle valley that ain’t on the main traveled way. ’Tain’t but two days’ travel from hyar, to’rd the Cascades. Fine red-shot soil. Grow anything. Injuns thar, but a decent show of spunk’ll keep ’em humble.” “How is it you’re not on this piece?”