“Man, man,” exclaimed stout-hearted Molly Wingate, “what for kind of a country have you brought us women to?  One more thing like that and my nerve’s gone.  Tell me, is this the last bad river?  And when will we get to Oregon?”

“Don’t be a-skeered, ma’am,” rejoined Bridger.  “A accident kin happen anywheres.  Hit’s a month on ter Oregon, whar ye’re headed.  Some fords on ahead, yes; we got ter cross back ter the south side the Snake again.”

“But you’ll go on with us, won’t you?” demanded young Molly Wingate.

They had halted to breathe the cattle at the foot of lava dust slope.  Bridger looked at the young girl for a time in silence.

“I’m off my country, Miss Molly,” said he.  “Beyant the second ford, at Fort Boise, I ain’t never been.  I done aimed ter turn back here an’ git back home afore the winter come.  Ain’t I did enough fer ye?”

But he hesitated.  There was a kindly light on the worn old face, in the sunken blue eye.

“Ye want me ter go on, Miss Molly?”

“If you could it would be a comfort to me, a protection to us all.”

“Is hit so!  Miss Molly, ye kin talk a ol’-time man out’n his last pelt!  But sence ye do want me, I’ll sornter along a leetle ways furtherer with ye.  Many a good fight is spoiled by wonderin’ how hit’s goin’ to come out.  An’ many a long trail’s lost by wonderin’ whar hit runs.  I hain’t never yit been plumb to Californy er Oregon.  But ef ye say I must, Miss Molly, why I must; an’ ef I must, why here goes!  I reckon my wimern kin keep my fire goin’ ontel I git back next year.”

CHAPTER XL

OREGON!  OREGON!

THE freakish resolves of the old-time trapper at least remained unchanged for many days, but at last one evening he came to Molly’s wagon, his face grim and sad.

“Miss Molly,” he said, “I’m come to say good-by now.  Hit’s for keeps.”

“No?  Then why?  You are like an old friend to me.  What don’t I owe to you?”

“Ye don’t owe nothin’ ter me yit, Miss Molly.  But I want ye ter think kindly o’ old Jim Bridger when he’s gone.  I allow the kindest thing I kin do fer ye is ter bring Will Banion ter ye.”

“You are a good man, James Bridger,” said Molly Wingate.  “But then?”

“Ye see, Miss Molly, I had six quarts o’ rum I got at Boise.  Some folks says rum is wrong.  Hit ain’t.  I’ll tell ye why.  Last night I drinked up my lastest bottle o’ that Hundson’s Bay rum.  Hit war right good rum, an ez I lay lookin’ up at the stars, all ter oncet hit come ter me that I was jest exactly, no more an’ no less, jest ter the ha’r, ez drunk I was on the leetle spree with Kit at Laramie.  Warn’t that fine?  An’ warn’t hit useful?  Nach’erl, bein’ jest even up, I done thought o’ everything I been fergettin’.  Hit all come ter me ez plain ez a streak o’ lightnin’.  What it was Kit Carson told me I know now, but no one else shall know.  No, not even you, Miss Molly.  I kain’t tell ye, so don’t ask.