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Parents weren’t keeping their kids in line. Every family was paying him to be wagon master. Why didn’t they follow his orders?
But there were worse ways to make a living, Ike thought as he poked at his fire with his boot and watched the orange sun settle over the wide plain north of the Snake River. They’d break camp in the morning and be in Oregon before sunset.
“Indians!” someone shouted.
Those damn Harrison teenagers again. Ike just sighed and leaned against his rig. Painted on his Winnebago was a covered wagon and the words, “Ike’s Western RV Tours.”