Part 16 (1/2)
”Tomorrow's another day,” she said.
Joe grinned. ”Could be you're right. I'll turn in.”
He was awake with earliest daylight, and lay staring at the thin dawn that lurked behind curtain-draped windows. It was a happy awakening, and the day held more true promise than any Joe could remember. He had, he felt as he lay beside Emma, been born all over again. But he had hurdled childhood and been born as a wholly new kind of man with nothing mean or petty in his life. Emma stirred beside him and Joe's hand stole out to clasp hers. For a moment they lay side by side, antic.i.p.ating events-to-be by living their greatest adventure in their minds.
After breakfast Joe and Tad skidded more seasoned oak and hickory logs in from the wood lot. He took the box from his wagon and drove the stripped-down wagon up beside the logs. Loading them was really a two-man job, but one man could do it.
Joe slanted and braced two short logs against the wagon and used his peavey to roll one of the heavier logs toward them. He rolled one end a short way up one of the leaning logs and braced it with a chunk of wood.
Going to the other end, he rolled that up and blocked it. By alternating ends, and rolling each a short way at a time, he finally loaded the log onto the wagon. Tad stood impatiently near.
”I'll help you, Pa.”
Joe shook his head. ”Not with this.”
”Aw, I can handle a peavey.”
”Nope. If one of those logs rolled on you, there wouldn't be enough left to sc.r.a.pe up.”
”Let me help!”
Joe said patiently, ”You watch and see how it's done. Maybe the next time you can help.”
Tad squatted on his heels and watched, sulking. Joe loaded the wagon, chained the load, and climbed on top of it to drive through Tenney's Crossing to John Geragty's saw mill. There was plenty of timber to be had for the taking, but never a surplus of seasoned oak and hickory.
John would have no trouble selling it for a good price, and therefore he would take his pay for sawing in lumber instead of money. Joe drove up to the saw mill, and John Geragty came to meet him.
”Hear you're goin' to Oregon,” he greeted.
”You hear right, John. Who told you?”
”Everybody knows it by this time. The Crossin' hasn't had this kind of news to chew on since Casey McMa.n.u.s was lynched.”
”Hope the chewing's good,” Joe grinned. ”Got some seasoned oak and hickory. Want to work it up for me?”
”What do you need?”
”Boards for a wagon box and a new reach and axles. Wouldn't do any harm to have an extra tongue, too.”
”Cash deal?”
”Share.”
”I don't know,” the other said doubtfully. ”You want to buy the metal for your axles?”
”Sure.”
”Then it's a deal. We'll split the timber half and half. If you don't need all yours, I'll sell it for you. Bill Logan's buildin' a new barn and he wants good lumber.”
”Good enough.”
Joe drove home with his empty wagon, and the mules p.r.i.c.ked their long ears forward when they came in sight of the pasture. Two saddle horses were tied to the fence, and Joe recognized one of them as Percy Pearl's fine thoroughbred. The other was a blocky paint owned by Watson Charters, a quarrelsome man who was greatly impressed with his own importance. Largely because n.o.body else would take the job, which meant that they might have to embarra.s.s their neighbors, Watson Charters was the local constable and he did a great deal of work for Elias Dorrance.