"Tad," she called, "you and Barbara pick up some of that driftwood along the river and bring it in."
She watched them as they left to do her bidding, her lovely daughter and the son who was so like his father. Tad had the long rifle over his shoulder and he would not go out of sight of the wagon. Every second or so he looked toward it. Tad returned with all the wood he could carry, two small pieces clutched under his arm and dragging a larger piece.
"Tad," Emma told him, "if you would leave the rifle here you could carry a lot more wood."
"No," he demurred.
"Yes you could."
"No. Pa told me to watch over things and I aim to do it."
She almost smiled openly, but stopped herself in time. A daughter of Missouri, she knew something about rifles and she had seen her son aim from a jolting, careening wagon and stop a running buffalo with one shot. Suddenly, though she could not help worrying about Joe, the emptiness was not a complete vacuum and she no longer felt deserted. This, while not normal, was no extraordinary situation. The Towers might be here instead of in a proper house. Wherever they were, they would take care of themselves.
The chickens scratched in the grass. Tethered in good grazing, the gentle cow stood patiently while Emma milked her. She marveled. Though the cow had walked all the way from Missouri, and could graze only when the wagon stopped, she still gave almost a third as much milk as she had given at home. Emma petted her affectionately. She was a very good cow, one that would be of some use after they got to Oregon.
Tad laid the fire. Lying on the windward side, he shielded it with his body and started the blaze with only one match. The match bottle he corked carefully and put exactly where it belonged. Emma watched fondly and a little wistfully. Some time, she thought, the world might be in such a condition that an eight-year-old could be a boy without having to be a man. Still, if there was any lack in his life, Tad did not seem to be aware of it. He had been left with responsibilities, and he was accepting them. And he fairly bristled with his new-found self-importance.
The three youngest children had become a herd of stampeding buffalo and baby Emma was the wagon they were trying to cut off. Young Joe entered so enthusiastically into the game that he made himself the buffalo that had bumped the wagon, and baby Emma took a seat in the grass. At once the adventuring wagon became a wailing child who was gathered up and comforted in Barbara's slim arms.