"We have so much to carry and so little room."
"There's room for that little box. You'd like to have your dishes, wouldn't you?"
"I'd love to!"
"Then they're going to Oregon with us. I'd better get the rifle. Left it outside."
Joe walked out to get the rifle, which was still leaning against the sycamore, and he returned to the house with it. He smiled whimsically. The pegs in his and Emma's bedroom were no longer a safe place for the rifle; they hadn't been in the first place or Tad never would have been able to smuggle the weapon out of the house. Joe set his jaw. Tad would have to use the rifle; it was an indispensable part of any man's equipment on any frontier. But he would have to use it properly. If he didn't, if there was any more irresponsible shooting, he'd feel the flat of his father's hand again.
For the time being, Joe hung the rifle back on its pegs. He turned to smile at his wife.
"The mules are shod, and there's not a darn thing to do except start for Oregon."
Emma clasped her hands together, her one gesture of apprehension. "It doesn't seem possible, does it?"
"Nope. Seems like there must be a hundred things to do yet. We'd best remember to catch your hens and rooster while they're on the roost tonight. Oh my golly!"
"What's the matter?"