“He done that?  Well, his father was a sheriff once, and his uncle, Judge Henry D. Showalter, he got into Congress.  Politics!  But some folks said the Banions was the best family.  Kentucky, they was.  Well, comes to siding in, Jess, I reckon it’s Molly herself’ll count more in that than either o’ them or either o’ us.  She’s eighteen past.  Another year and she’ll be an old maid.  If there’s a wedding going across—­”

“There won’t be,” said her husband shortly.  “If there is it won’t be her and no William Banion, I’m saying that.”

CHAPTER V

THE BLACK SPANIARD

Meantime the younger persons referred to in the frank discussion of Wingate and his wife were occupying themselves in their own fashion their last day in camp.  Molly, her basket full of dandelion leaves, was reluctant to leave the shade of the grove by the stream, and Jed had business with the team of great mules that Molly was to drive on the trail.

As for the Liberty train, its oval remained unbroken, the men and women sitting in the shade of the wagons.  Their outfitting had been done so carefully that little now remained for attention on the last day, but the substantial men of the contingent seemed far from eager to be on their way.  Groups here and there spoke in monosyllables, sullenly.  They wanted to join the great train, had voted to do so; but the cavalier deposing of their chosen man Banion—­who before them all at the meeting had shown himself fit to lead—­and the cool appointment of Woodhull in his place had on reflection seemed to them quite too high-handed a proposition.  They said so now.

“Where’s Woodhull now?” demanded the bearded man who had championed Banion.  “I see Will out rounding up his cows, but Sam Woodhull ain’t turned a hand to hooking up to pull in west o’ town with the others.”

“That’s easy,” smiled another.  “Sam Woodhull is where he’s always going to be—­hanging around the Wingate girl.  He’s over at their camp now.”

“Well, I dunno’s I blame him so much for that, neither.  And he kin stay there fer all o’ me.  Fer one, I won’t foller no Woodhull, least o’ all Sam Woodhull, soldier or no soldier.  I’ll pull out when I git ready, and to-morrow mornin’ is soon enough fer me.  We kin jine on then, if so’s we like.”

Someone turned on his elbow, nodded over shoulder.  They heard hoof beats.  Banion came up, fresh from his new work on the herd.  He asked for Woodhull, and learning his whereabouts trotted across the intervening glade.

“That’s shore a hoss he rides,” said one man.

“An’ a shore man a-ridin’ of him,” nodded another.  “He may ride front o’ the train an’ not back o’ hit, even yet.”

Molly Wingate sat on the grass in the little grove, curling a chain of dandelion stems.  Near by Sam Woodhull, in his best, lay on the sward regarding her avidly, a dull fire in his dark eyes.  He was so enamored of the girl as to be almost unfit for aught else.  For weeks he had kept close to her.  Not that Molly seemed over-much to notice or encourage him.  Only, woman fashion, she ill liked to send away any attentive male.  Just now she was uneasy.  She guessed that if it were not for the presence of her brother Jed near by this man would declare himself unmistakably.