The mules walked unhesitatingly after him, and Joe held them to a slow walk in order that the wagon might take gently any hidden obstructions. Tall wild grass brushed the bellies of the mules and of Ellis's horse. A cool and gentle breeze breathed down the creek, and ruffled the slender tops of trees on the west side. The wagon listed a little, and there came the rattle of a falling bucket. As they proceeded upstream, the meadow widened and the trees on the west bank gave way to grass. Save for one towering pine that grew halfway between the creek and the forest on top of the gently sloping hill, as far as Joe could see there was only meadow land. Three nervous cow elk, probably with calves hidden somewhere back in the forest, edged cautiously out of sight. Joe guided his team to the big pine's shade and stopped. He turned to Emma. He unhitched and picketed the mules while Tad tied a picket rope to the cow and staked her in tall grass. Used to traveling, and accustomed to grazing different grounds every night, all three animals fell to cropping grass. Though the Oregon Trail was only a few hundred yards to the south, for centuries these meadows had been the haunt of wild things. Probably an occasional horseman had ventured here, but as far as Joe knew theirs was the first wagon that had ever come up the creek. He took a moment to look around, and breathed deeply of the pine-scented air. Jim Snedeker had known what he was talking about when he spoke of nice country. Ellis swung Emma's crate of poultry to the ground and opened the gate. The rooster jumped to the top of the crate, flapped his wings, and crowed lustily. Four of the hens scurried here and there in the grass, catching bugs and picking up fallen seed. The other two, wings spread, clucked fussily and avoided the rest. Those two were broody and had been for more than a week. Even confinement in the crate and traveling all day was not enough to make them forget age-old instincts. One of them stalked secretively into the grass, searching for a place to nest. Joe took his snath from the place where it had lain since they left Missouri and fitted a scythe to it. He tested the blade with his thumb, and through the coating of grease that covered it and prevented its rusting he felt its keenness. With a hand full of grass he wiped the scythe clean and went to work. Strength flowed into his arms, and in spite of the pall that overhung all of them he felt a little song spring into his heart as he mowed the first swath of grass. There had been times when he wondered seriously if the long Trail would not make him forget all he had known about farming, but he fell automatically into the rhythm of what he was doing. The scythe ceased to be a mere tool and became a part of him as grass toppled beneath his attack. He mowed to the big pine, and all around it, then kicked together armfuls of soft grass and arranged it in a pile. Joe covered the bed with a buffalo robe and went to the wagon.