that note of agony in his mother's voice, that hurt look in her
eyes, that bronze group in the moonlight. By the time he had
finished his chores, his mother was getting breakfast as usual.
With unspeakable relief, Martin noticed that though pain haunted
her face, she was not crying.

"I heard while I was over in Missouri, yesterday," he ventured,
"of a one-room house down in the Indian Territory. The fellow who
built it's give up and gone back East. Maybe we could fix a
sledge and haul it up here."

"I ain't got the strength to help," said Wade.

Martin's eyes involuntarily sought his mother's. He knew the
power in her lean, muscular arms, the strength in her narrow
shoulders.

"We'd better fetch it," she agreed.

The pair made the trip down on horseback and brought back the
shack that was to be home for many years. Eighteen miles off a
man had some extra hand-cut shingles which he was willing to
trade for a horse-collar. While Mrs. Wade took the long drive
Martin, under his father's guidance, chopped down enough trees to
build a little lean-to kitchen and make-shift stable. Sixteen
miles south another neighbor had some potatoes to exchange for a
hatching of chickens. Martin rode over with the hen and her downy
brood. The long rides, consuming hours, were trying, for Martin
was needed every moment on a farm where everything was still to
be done.