Knowing that he would be reached within an hour or so at best, Jackson used the last energies of his horse in riding back and forth at right angles across the trail, the Plains sign of “Come to me!” He hoped it would be seen.  He flung himself down across the road, in the dust, his bridle tied to his wrist.  His horse, now nearly gone, lay down beside him, nor ever rose again.  And here, in the time a gallop could bring them up, Banion and three of his men found them, one dead, the other little better.

“Bill!  Bill!”

The voice of Banion was anxious as he lightly shook the shoulder of the prone man, half afraid that he, too, had died.  Stupid in sleep, the scout sprang up, rifle in hand.

“Who’s thar?”

“Hold, Bill!  Friends!  Easy now!”

The old man pulled together, rubbed his eyes.

“I must of went to sleep agin,” said he.  “My horse—­pshaw now, pore critter, do-ee look now!”

In rapid words he now told his errand.  They could see the train accelerating its speed.  Jackson felt in the bag at his belt and handed Banion the folded paper.  He opened the folds steadily, read the words again and again.

“‘Come to us,’” is what it says.  He spoke to Jackson.

“Ye’re a damned liar, Will,” remarked Jackson.

“I’ll read it all!” said Banion suddenly.

“’Will Banion, come to me, or it may be too late.  There never was any wedding.  I am the most wicked and most unhappy woman in the world.  You owe me nothing!  But come!  M.W.’

“That’s what it says.  Now you know.  Tell me—­you heard of no wedding back at Independence Rock?  They said nothing?  He and she—­”

“Ef they was ever any weddin’ hit was a damned pore sort, an’ she says thar wasn’t none.  She’d orto know.”

“Can you ride, Jackson?”

“Span in six fast mules for a supply wagon, such as kin gallop.  I’ll sleep in that a hour or so.  Git yore men started, Will.  We may be too late.  It’s nigh fifty mile to the ford o’ the Green.”

It came near to mutiny when Banion ordered a third of his men to stay back with the ox teams and the families.  Fifty were mounted and ready in five minutes.  They were followed by two fast wagons.  In one of these rolled Bill Jackson, unconscious of the roughness of the way.

On the Sandy, twenty miles from the ford, they wakened him.

“Now tell me how it lies,” said Banion.  “How’s the country?”

Jackson drew a sketch on the sand.

“They’ll surround, an’ they’ll cut off the water.”

“Can we ford above and come in behind them?”

“We mout.  Send half straight to the ford an’ half come in behind, through the willers, huh?  That’d put ’em atween three fires.  Ef we driv’ ‘em on the wagons they’d get hell thar, an’ ef they broke, the wagons could chase ’em inter us again.  I allow we’d give ’em hell.  Hit’s the Crows I’m most a-skeered of.  The Bannacks—­ef that’s who they was—­’ll run easy.”