“Well, haven’t I got to?  Somehow it seems a man ain’t making up his own mind when he moves West Pap moved twice in Kentucky, once in Tennessee, and then over to Missouri, after you and me was married and moved up into Indiana, before we moved over into Illinois.  He said to me—­and I know it for the truth—­he couldn’t hardly tell who it was or what it was hitched up the team.  But first thing he knew, there the old wagon stood, front of the house, cover all on, plow hanging on behind, tar bucket under the wagon, and dog and all.  All he had to do, pap said, was just to climb up on the front seat and speak to the team.  My maw, she climb up on the seat with him.  Then they moved—­on West.  You know, Molly.  My maw, she climb up on the front seat—­”

His wife suddenly turned to him, the tears still in her eyes.

“Yes, and Jesse Wingate, and you know it, your wife’s as good a woman as your maw!  When the wagon was a-standing, cover on, and you on the front seat, I climb up by you, Jess, same as I always have and always will.  Haven’t I always?  You know that.  But it’s harder on women, moving is.  They care more for a house that’s rain tight in a storm.”

“I know you did, Molly,” said her husband soberly.

“I suppose I can pack my jells in a box and put in the wagon, anyways.”  She was drying her eyes.

“Why, yes, I reckon so.  And then a few sacks of dried corn will go mighty well on the road.”

“One thing”—­she turned on him in wifely fury—­“you shan’t keep me from taking my bureau and my six chairs all the way across!  No, nor my garden seeds, all I saved.  No, nor yet my rose roots that I’m taking along.  We got to have a home, Jess—­we got to have a home!  There’s Jed and Molly coming on.”

“Where’s Molly now?” suddenly asked her husband.  “She’d ought to be helping you right now.”

“Oh, back at the camp, I s’pose—­her and Jed, too.  I told her to pick a mess of dandelion greens and bring over.  Larking around with them young fellows, like enough.  Huh!  She’ll have less time.  If Jed has to ride herd, Molly’s got to take care of that team of big mules, and drive ’em all day in the light wagon too.  I reckon if she does that, and teaches night school right along, she won’t be feeling so gay.”

“They tell me folks has got married going across,” she added, “not to mention buried.  One book we had said, up on the Platte, two years back, there was a wedding and a birth and a burying in one train, all inside of one hour, and all inside of one mile.  That’s Oregon!”

“Well, I reckon it’s life, ain’t it?” rejoined her husband.  “One thing, I’m not keen to have Molly pay too much notice to that young fellow Banion—­him they said was a leader of the Liberty wagons.  Huh, he ain’t leader now!”

“You like Sam Woodhull better for Molly, Jess?”

“Some ways.  He falls in along with my ideas.  He ain’t so apt to make trouble on the road.  He sided in with me right along at the last meeting.”