The relief that Joe felt at the way his children had taken the news expressed itself in a minor outburst. Joe said, "Doggone it!" Emma said, "Is something wrong?" "I must have been in quite a fluster when I got here. Left the mare mule's bridle lying on the ground. I'd better go pick it up." Tad said happily, "I'll go with you, Pa." They left the house together and Joe felt strangely light, almost giddy, as he walked across the familiar yard. It was impossible to go to Oregon, but they were going. Joe grinned. There had been a great decision and a small one; they were going to Oregon and he must pick up a mule bridle. "When we startin', Pa?" Tad breathed. "Soon's we can get ready." "Can Mike go too?" "He can if he wants to walk all the way." Tad breathed, "I'm goin' to walk, too! Can I shoot a buffalo, Pa? Can I?" Joe said good humoredly, "For pete's sake, we're not out of Missouri yet--we haven't even started--and you talk of buffalo! Can't you wait until we see some?" "Do you think we'll have Indian fights, Pa?" Tad asked breathlessly. "We won't if I can help it." Joe was suddenly sober. "Tad, you and I have to be the men on this trip. You know that?" "I know it, Pa! I know it and I'll do everything I can to help! Honest! Can I go tell Buster Trevelyan?" "Sure." With a wild whoop, Mike racing beside him, Tad was away. Joe picked up the mule bridle and glanced at the mules. They were standing together, nibbling each other with their lips. The mules usually quarreled over which was going to get the most of the choicest food, but they were genuinely fond of each other and Joe supposed that was a good thing too. Mules, hybrids that had no future because they were incapable of reproducing their own kind, must feel desperately frustrated at times. A meadow lark sang from the top of the fence and Joe answered it, imitating almost perfectly the bird's sweet call. The meadow lark called again and Joe talked back to it. He wondered if there would be meadow larks in Oregon and hoped wistfully that he would find them there for they were a totem bird, a symbol of good luck. Nothing could be too bad as long as there was a meadow lark about. Joe had always fought against killing them for any reason, though now and again some of his neighbors shot or snared some to eat. Joe answered a bobwhite that called from a corner of brush, and a red-winged blackbird that perched on a swaying reed down near the creek. He had always cherished a secret desire to play a fiddle, or almost any kind of musical instrument, but he'd never been able to do it. His one talent, besides farming, was imitating bird calls and he enjoyed himself with those. Yancey Garrow, who could play the fiddle, had even said he'd trade that for Joe's ability.