Joe felt a sudden, warming kinship with this man whom he had seen for the first time less than an hour ago. Grandpa Seeley was going nowhere, not ever again in his entire life. But he had flung his gauntlet in the face of a great challenge and he yearned to do it again. Joe gripped the old man's hand again, and looked into his sightless eyes. He said, "You've given me a lot," and to the woman, "Thank you, Mrs. Seeley, for everything." She said, "Oh, I do hope nothing happens!" "Nothing will. That is, nothing bad." Joe fought his mule to a standstill, bridled her, mounted, and let her choose her own pace home. The sun was high when he rode into his yard. Her face tear streaked and her eyes red, Barbara came to meet him. Joe's heart leaped in sudden panic; little Emma had been sick when he left. He said, "What's wrong?" "The cow!" Barbara choked back a sob. "Clover! She broke her leg while you were away and Pete Domley shot her!" Barbara threw herself into his arms, and for the first time in years she sobbed like the little girl he had once known. Joe hugged her very tightly and stroked her slim back with his rough hand. The day had been a good one, and he had learned much that he needed to know. But he had not learned, he now realized with a poignant uneasiness, how to prepare a sensitive young girl for the hardships and dangers she must face in the long journey ahead of them. CHAPTER FIVE The Start The Mule pulled hard on the reins as she sought to reach a lush growth of grass near by. With a rough jerk Joe brought her back, and she stood meekly behind him. The mules could gauge his moods as exactly as he could theirs; they always know just how far they might go and when they'd better behave. The mule did not pull even hard enough to tighten the reins as she waited. Barbara buried her tear-stained face in his shirt front and Joe held her fiercely close to him. Her body shook convulsively, and it seemed to Joe that every racking sob tore out of his throat too. He knew a moment of blank dismay because, though there were words that applied to the situation, he could not think of them. He did think of a doe whose hip had been shattered by a rifle ball, and he had a wild notion that there was some comparison between the stricken doe and his stricken child. Nobody had been able to do anything for the deer, either. Joe said, "Don't cry, Bobby! Please don't cry!" "It--it was awful!" "I know, but would you want Clover to suffer? Pete did the right thing. If I'd have been here, I'd have done it myself." Panting hard, Tad's dog came around a corner of the house and threw himself down in the shade. Tad followed, whittling on a stick with his knife and kicking at the shavings as they fell. He looked at his sobbing sister in her father's arms and scornfully expressed what he felt was a distinct superiority of all male creatures over all female. "Huh! Cryin' about an old cow!"