“They ain’t but three men of you, is they?  What do you want of more mules?” put in an inquisitive idler of the trouble-loving class who sooner or later turn arguments into bitter brawls.

“These three children and the cook in there have this wagon.  They are all fair drivers, if I can get the right mules,” my uncle said.

Women and children did not cross the plains in those days, nor could public welfare allow that so valuable a piece of property as Aunty Boone would be in the slave-market should be lost to commerce, and the storm of protest that followed would have overcome a less determined man.  It was not on account of sympathy for the weak and defenseless that called out all this abuse, but the lawless spirit that stirs up a mob on the slightest excuse.

I slid away to the door, where, with Mat and Beverly, I watched Esmond Clarenden, who was listening with his good-natured smile to all of that loud street talk.

“No man’s life is insurable in these troublesome times, with our troops right now down in Mexico,” a suave Southern trader urged.  “Better sell your slave and put that nice little gal in a boardin’-school somewhere in the South.”

“I’ll give you a mighty good bargain for that wench, Clarenden.  She might be worth a clare fortune in New Orleans.  What d’ye say to a cool thousand?” another man declared, with a slow.  Southern drawl.

Aunty Boone took the pipe from her lips and looked at the stranger.

“Y’would!” she grunted, stretching her big right hand across her lap, like a huge paw with claws ready underneath.

“Them plains Injuns never was more hostile than they air right now.  I just got in from the mountains an’ I know.  An’ they’re bein’ set on by more hostile Mexican devils, and political intrigs,” a bearded mountaineer trapper argued.

“’Sides all that,” interposed the suave Southern gentleman, “it’s too early in the spring.  Freightin’s bound to be delayed by rains—­and a nice little gal with only a nigger—­” He was not quite himself, and he did not try to say more.

“Seems like some of these gentlemen consider you are some sort of a fool,” a tall, lean Yankee youth observed, as he listened to the babble.

I had climbed back on the barrel again to see the crowd better, and I stared at the last speaker.  His voice was not unpleasant, but he appeared pale and weak and spiritless in that company of tanned, rugged men.  Evidently he was an invalid in search of health.  We children had seen many invalids, from time to time, at the fort harmless folk, who came to fuss, and stayed to flourish, in our gracious land of the open air.

“You are a dam’ fool,” roared a big drunken loafer from the edge of the crowd.  “An’ I’d lick you in a minnit if you das step into the middle of the street onct.  Ornery sneak, to take innocent children into such perils.  Come on out here, I tell ye!”