“I don’t reckon hit’s so much a matter about a hoss as hit is about a gal,” remarked Bill Jackson sagely.  “Ye’ll hatter fight.  Well then, seein’ as hit’s about a gal, knuckle an’ skull, is that right?”

He cast a glance around this group of other fighting men of a border day.  They nodded gravely, but with glittering eyes.

“Well then, gentlemen”—­and now he stood free of Woodhull—­“ye both give word ye’ll make no break till we tell ye?  I’ll say, two-three days out?”

“Suits me,” said Woodhull savagely.  “I’ll break his neck for him.”

“Any time that suits the gentleman to break my neck will please me,” said Will Banion indifferently.  “Say when, friends.  Just now I’ve got to look after my cows.  It seems to me our wagon master might very well look after his wagons.”

“That sounds!” commented Jackson.  “That sounds!  Sam, git on about yer business, er ye kain’t travel in the Liberty train nohow!  An’ don’t ye make no break, in the dark especial, fer we kin track ye anywhere’s.  Ye’ll fight fair fer once—­an’ ye’ll fight!”

By now the group massed about these scenes had begun to relax, to spread.  Women had Molly in hand as her eyes opened.  Jed came up at a run with the mule team and the light wagon from the grove, and they got the girl into the seat with him, neither of them fully cognizant of what had gone on in the group of tight-mouthed men who now broke apart and sauntered silently back, each to his own wagon.

CHAPTER VII

THE JUMP-OFF

With the first thin line of pink the coyotes hanging on the flanks of the great encampment raised their immemorial salutation to the dawn.  Their clamorings were stilled by a new and sterner voice—­the notes of the bugle summoning sleepers of the last night to the duties of the first day.  Down the line from watch to watch passed the Plains command, “Catch up!  Catch up!” It was morning of the jump-off.

Little fires began at the wagon messes or family bivouacs.  Men, boys, barefooted girls went out into the dew-wet grass to round up the transport stock.  A vast confusion, a medley of unskilled endeavor marked the hour.  But after an hour’s wait, adjusted to the situation, the next order passed down the line: 

“Roll out!  Roll out!”

And now the march to Oregon was at last begun!  The first dust cut by an ox hoof was set in motion by the whip crack of a barefooted boy in jeans who had no dream that he one day would rank high in the councils of his state, at the edge of an ocean which no prairie boy ever had envisioned.