“And from that time on,” she added laughing, “I been trying to forget him and to live him down!”

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE CROSSING

Three days out from Fort Hall the vanguard of the remnant of the train, less than a fourth of the original number, saw leaning against a gnarled sagebrush a box lid which had scrawled upon it in straggling letters one word—­“California.”  Here now were to part the pick and the plow.

Jim Bridger, sitting his gaunt horse, rifle across saddle horn, halted for the head of the train to pull even with him.

“This here’s Cassia Creek,” said he.  “Yan’s the trail down Raft River ter the Humboldt and acrost the Sierrys ter Californy.  A long, dry jump hit is, by all accounts.  The Oregon road goes on down the Snake.  Hit’s longer, if not so dry.”

Small invitation offered in the physical aspect of either path.  The journey had become interminable.  The unspeakable monotony, whose only variant was peril, had smothered the spark of hope and interest.  The allurement of mystery had wholly lost its charm.

The train halted for some hours.  Once more discussion rose.

“Last chance for Californy, men,” said old Jim Bridger calmly.  “Do-ee see the tracks?  Here’s Greenwood come in.  Yan’s where Woodhull’s wagons left the road.  Below that, one side, is the tracks o’ Banion’s mules.”

“I wonder,” he added, “why thar hain’t ary letter left fer none o’ us here at the forks o’ the road.”

He did not know that, left in a tin at the foot of the board sign certain days earlier, there had rested a letter addressed to Miss Molly Wingate.  It never was to reach her.  Sam Woodhull knew the reason why.  Having opened it and read it, he had possessed himself of exacter knowledge than ever before of the relations of Banion and Molly Wingate.  Bitter as had been his hatred before, it now was venomous.  He lived thenceforth no more in hope of gold than of revenge.

The decision for or against California was something for serious weighing now at the last hour, and it affected the fortune and the future of every man, woman and child in all the train.  Never a furrow was plowed in early Oregon but ran in bones and blood; and never a dollar was dug in gold in California—­or ever gained in gold by any man—­which did not cost two in something else but gold.

Twelve wagons pulled out of the trail silently, one after another, and took the winding trail that led to the left, to the west and south.  Others watched them, tears in their eyes, for some were friends.

Alone on her cart seat, here at the fateful parting of the ways, Molly Wingate sat with a letter clasped in her hand, frank tears standing in her eyes.  It was no new letter, but an old one.  She pressed the pages to her heart, to her lips, held them out at arm’s length before her in the direction of the far land which somewhere held its secrets.