“When me an’ Bill was havin’ a few afore he left I was right on the p’int o’ rememberin’ what it was I was fergittin’.  I don’t make no doubt, ef Kit an’ me er Bill an’ me could only meet an’ drink along day er so hit’d all come plain to me.  But all by myself, an’ sober, an’ not sociable with Dang Yore Eyes jest now, I sw’ar, I kain’t think o’ nothin’.  What’s a girl’s mind fer ef hit hain’t to think o’ things?”

“It was about—­him?  It was about Kit Carson, something he had—­was it about the gold news?”

“Mebbe.  I don’t know.”

“Did he—­Mr. Banion—­say anything?”

“Mostly erbout you, an’ not much.  He only said ef I ever got any mail to send it ter the Judge in the Willamette settlements.”

“He does expect to come back to Oregon!”

“How can I tell?  My belief, he’d better jump in the Percific Ocean.  He’s a damn fool, Miss Molly.  Ef a man loves a womern, that’s somethin’ that never orto wait.  Yit he goes teeterin’ erroun’ like he had from now ter doomsday ter marry the girl which he loves too much fer ter marry her.  That makes me sick.  Yit he has resemblances ter a man, too, some ways—­faint resemblances, yes.  Fer instance, I’ll bet a gun flint these here people that’s been hearin’ erbout the ford o’ the Snake’d be a hull lot gladder ef they knew Will Banion was erlong.  Huh?”

Molly Wingate was looking far away, pondering many things.

“Well, anyways, hit’s even-Stephen fer them both two now,” went on Bridger, “an’ may God perteck the right an’ the devil take the him’mostest.  They’ll like enough both marry Injun wimern an’ settle down in Californy.  Out o’ sight, out o’ mind.  Love me little, love me long.  Lord Lovell, he’s mounted his milk-white steed.  Farewell, sweet sir, partin’ is such sweet sorrer; like ol’ Cap’n Bonneville uster say.  But o’ all the messes any fool bunch o’ pilgrims ever got inter, this is the worstest, an’ hit couldn’t be no worser.

“Now, Miss Molly, ye’re a plumb diserpintment ter me.  I jest drapped in ter see ef ye couldn’t tell me what hit was Kit done told me.  But ye kain’t.  Whar is yer boasted superiorness as a womern?

“But now, me, havin’ did forty mile a day over that country yan, I need sustenance, an’ I’m goin’ to see ef ol’ Cap’ Grant, the post trader, has ary bit o’ Hundson Bay rum left.  Ef he has hit’s mine, an’ ef not, Jim Bridger’s a liar, an’ that I say deliberate.  I’m goin’ to try to git inter normal condition enough fer to remember a few plain, simple truths, seein’ as you all kain’t.  Way hit is, this train’s in a hell of a fix, an’ hit couldn’t be no worser.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

WHEN THE ROCKIES FELL

The news of Jim Bridger’s arrival, and the swift rumor that he would serve as pilot for the train over the dangerous portion of the route ahead, spread an instantaneous feeling of relief throughout the hesitant encampment at this, the last touch with civilization east of the destination.  He paused briefly at one or another wagon after he had made his own animals comfortable, laughing and jesting in his own independent way, en route to fulfill his promise to himself regarding the trader’s rum.