"Joe, we must stop. She's very bad."
He was about to swing the mules to one side of the Trail when Ellis rode back. Ellis swung his horse in beside the wagon and looked up at Joe.
"How is the youngster?"
"Emma says bad. We have to stop."
"There's a good creek about a quarter mile ahead and a meadow only a little ways up the creek. It's a better place than this if we're going to camp."
"Hear that, Emma?" Joe called. "Want to go there?"
She said, "I think it will be better. There'll be no interruptions if we're off the Trail."
The mules plodded down the Trail to the creek. Sparkling, clear and cold, it trickled out of a shallow little gully and flowed across the Trail to lose itself in trees on the other side. The west bank was tree-lined, but tall grass grew on the east bank and laid a soft carpet back to the line of trees. Joe saw trout lingering in a pool.
Ellis swung his horse from the Trail up a grassy embankment. "Follow me," he called. "The wagon can get up here."
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.