They came into the guard circle, into the dog circle of the encampment; but when challenged answered, and were not stopped.

“Here, Jackson,” said Banion at length, “take the rope.  I’m going to our camp.  I’ll not go into this train.  Take this pistol—­it’s loaded now.  Let off the reata, walk close to this man.  If he runs, kill him.  Find Molly Wingate.  Tell her Will Banion has sent her husband to her—­once more.  It’s the last time.”

He was gone in the dark.  Bill Jackson, having first meticulously exhausted the entire vituperative resources of the English, the Spanish and all the Indian languages he knew, finally poked the muzzle of the pistol into Woodhull’s back.

“Git, damn ye!” he commanded.  “Center, guide!  Forrerd, march!  Ye—­”

He improvised now, all known terms of contempt having been heretofore employed.

Threading the way past many feast fires, he did find the Wingate wagons at length, did find Molly Wingate.  But there his memory failed him.  With a skinny hand at Sam Woodhull’s collar, he flung him forward.

“Here, Miss Molly,” said he, “this thing is somethin’ Major Banion sont in ter ye by me.  We find hit stuck in the mud.  He said ye’re welcome.”

But neither he nor Molly really knew why that other man had spared Sam Woodhull’s life, or what it was he awaited in return for Sam Woodhull’s life.

All that Jackson could do he did.  As he turned in the dark he implanted a heartfelt kick which sent Sam Woodhull on his knees before Molly Wingate as she stood in wondering silence.

Then arose sudden clamorings of those who had seen part of this—­seen an armed man assault another, unarmed and defenseless, at their very firesides.  Men came running up.  Jesse Wingate came out from the side of his wagon.

“What’s all this?” he demanded.  “Woodhull, what’s up?  What’s wrong here?”

CHAPTER XXIII

AN ARMISTICE

To the challenge of Wingate and his men Jackson made answer with a high-pitched fighting yell.  Sweeping his pistol muzzle across and back again over the front of the closing line, he sprang into saddle and wheeled away.

“Hit means we’ve brung ye back a murderer.  Git yer own rope—­ye kain’t have mine!  If ye-all want trouble with Old Missoury over this, er anything else, come runnin’ in the mornin’.  Ye’ll find us sp’ilin’ fer a fight!”

He was off in the darkness.

Men clustered around the draggled man, one of their, own men, recently one in authority.  Their indignation rose, well grounded on the growing feeling between the two segments of the train.  When Woodhull had told his own story, in his own way, some were for raiding the Missouri detachment forthwith.  Soberer counsel prevailed.  In the morning Price, Hall and Kelsey rode over to the Missouri encampment and asked for their leader.  Banion met them while the work of breaking camp went on, the cattle herd being already driven in and held at the rear by lank, youthful riders, themselves sp’lin’ fer a fight.