Women in slatted sunbonnets turned impassive gaze from the high front seats, back of which, swung to the bows by leather loops, hung the inevitable family rifle in each wagon.

And now, at the tail gate of every wagon, lashed fast for its last long journey, hung also the family plow.
It was '48, and the grass was up.

On to Oregon! The ark of our covenant with progress was passing out.

Almost it might have been said to have held every living thing, like that other ark of old.
Banion hastened to one side, where a grassy level beyond the little stream still offered stance.

He raised a hand in gesture to the right.