“That packet is over the seal of the United States of America, Chardon.  It carries the signature of the President.  It was given to the Army to deliver.  The Army has given it to me.  I give it to you, and you must go.  It is for Jim.  He would know.  It must be placed in the hands of the Circuit Judge acting under, the laws of Oregon, whoever he may be, and wherever.  Find him in the Willamette country.  Your pay will be more than you think, Chardon.  Jim would know.  Dead or alive, you do this for him.

“You can do thirty miles a day.  I know you as a mountain man.  Ride!  To-morrow I start east to Laramie—­and you start west for Oregon!”

And in the morning following two riders left Bridger’s for the trail. 
They parted, each waving a hand to the other.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE KILLER KILLED

A rough low cabin of logs, hastily thrown together, housed through the winter months of the Sierra foothills the two men who now, in the warm days of early June, sat by the primitive fireplace cooking a midday meal.  The older man, thin, bearded, who now spun a side of venison ribs on a cord in front of the open fire, was the mountain man, Bill Jackson, as anyone might tell who ever had seen him, for he had changed but little.

That his companion, younger, bearded, dressed also in buckskins, was Will Banion it would have taken closer scrutiny even of a friend to determine, so much had the passing of these few months altered him in appearance and in manner.  Once light of mien, now he smiled never at all.  For hours he would seem to go about his duties as an automaton.  He spoke at last to his ancient and faithful friend, kindly as ever, and with his own alertness and decision.

“Let’s make it our last meal on the Trinity, Bill.  What do you say?”

“Why?  What’s eatin’ ye, boy?  Gittin’ restless agin?”

“Yes, I want to move.”

“Most does.”

“We’ve got enough, Bill.  The last month has been a crime.  The spring snows uncovered a fortune for us, and you know it!”

“Oh, yes, eight hundred in one day ain’t bad for two men that never had saw a gold pan a year ago.  But she ain’t petered yit.  With what we’ve learned, an’ what we know, we kin stay in here an’ git so rich that hit shore makes me cry ter think o’ trappin’ beaver, even before 1836, when the beaver market busted.  Why, rich?  Will, hit’s like you say, plumb wrong—­we done hit so damned easy!  I lay awake nights plannin’ how ter spend my share o’ this pile.  We must have fifty-sixty thousand dollars o’ dust buried under the floor, don’t ye think?”

“Yes, more.  But if you’ll agree, I’ll sell this claim to the company below us and let them have the rest.  They offer fifty thousand flat, and it’s enough—­more than enough.  I want two things—­to get Jim Bridger his share safe and sound; and I want to go to Oregon.”