They passed the houses and a row of shacks, and beyond them came to the corrals. The stock traders of Independence did a thriving business, for many of those going over the Oregon Trail came to Independence by river boat, horseback, stage, or on foot. Then they bought the wagons that were to carry their goods over the Trail, the beasts that were to pull the wagons, and in some instances goods to carry in them. Some of those who came from the east did not know how to handle stock, so that frequently it was footsore or sick by the time they arrived at Independence. Thus they had to replace their animals anyway. However, most of the wagons started over the Oregon Trail in spring, with the first ones leaving as soon as the grass was green enough to furnish good grazing. Naturally the heaviest stock sales occurred when there were the most emigrants wanting to buy, and now some of the corrals were empty. But there were still more oxen, horses and mules than Joe had ever before seen in one place. He halted his team abruptly as a man holding one end of a rope in his hand raced into the road. On the rope's other end was a big, dappled-gray, fighting-mad mule. Just as the man stumbled and fell, Joe handed the reins to Emma and leaped from the wagon. The gray mule was pounding toward the fallen man when Joe came between them and seized the lead rope. Instantly the mule transferred its anger to him, and Joe dodged aside. He shortened the rope as he did so, getting closer to the gray mule. It was, he saw, as much frightened as angry and Joe spoke soothingly. At the same time, his anger rose. Some men should never handle mules, and obviously the man now picking himself up out of the road was one of them. Bit by bit, never making a fast move and always sure of himself, Joe calmed the mule. He got his hands on the halter's check strap, and continued to utter soothing words with his mouth the while he talked with his hands too. He did not look around when the man who had been mishandling the animal said defiantly, "I quit!" and stalked off down the road. His departure seemed further to reassure the gray mule. "Howdy, friend." Joe turned to face a man as tall as he was, and as wide through the middle as he was tall. He had sparse hair, shrewd eyes, a pudgy nose, and flabby lips behind which gold teeth flashed. A frayed, unlighted cigar was clutched firmly in his teeth, Joe said, "Howdy." "You're a mule man, huh?" "Just wanted to keep that idiot from getting killed." "You shouldn't have bothered; sooner or later he'll get killed anyhow. He told me he could gentle some mules." "He must have used a club." "He did. You Oregon-bound?" "Yup." "You'll never make it this season." "I know that." "How about taking the job you just saw left vacant? I'll pay you well. My name's Jake Favors." Joe said, "I'm Joe Tower and I'm on my way to Oregon."