It was nearly sundown and he went to the back of the wagon, half swimming his way, for he was not a tall man. He let down the tailgate and was knocked over by the sluice of water.

He sputtered back to his feet and scrambled madly to pull his bags of seed grain forward. They were already swollen to bursting. Of all their worldly belongings, next to the oxen and his gun, the seed grain had been the most treasured. It was spoiled now for seed, and it would sour and mold in three days if they failed to find a place and fuel to dry it. The oxen might as well enjoy it.

He examined the water marks on the iron tires when the animals were finished. The waters lay muddy but placid, without a ripple of movement against the wheels; there was not a match width of damp mark to show they were receding.

He doubted if a man could wade as far as the desolate, dry hills that rimmed the valley. A terrible, numbing sense of futility swept over him.

He gripped the wheel hard to fight the despondency of defeat. Then he noticed that the dry wood of the wheels had swollen. The spokes were tight again, the iron tires gripped onto the wheels as if of one piece.

Hope surged within him. He swung toward the front to give the news to Hettie, then stopped, barred from her by the vehemence of her blame and hate. Still, he felt better. A tight wagon meant so much.

He got a small fire started and put on bacon and coffee. He poured the water off the sourdough and off the flour, salvaging the chunky, watery messes for biscuits of a sort. Their jams and jellies had not suffered. He found a jar of preserved tomatoes and one of eggs that they had meant to save. Now he broke them open, hoping a good meal might lessen this depression crushing Hettie.