After all, when in sheer courtesy the leaders of the Wingate train came over to the Missouri camp on the following day there came nearer to being a good understanding than there ever had been since the first break.  It was agreed that all the wagons should go on together as far as Fort Bridger, and that beyond that point the train should split into two or perhaps three bodies—­a third if enough Woodhull adherents could be found to make him up a train.  First place, second and third were to be cast by lot.  They all talked soberly, fairly, with the dignity of men used to good standing among men.  These matters concluded, and it having been agreed that all should lie by for another day, they resolved the meeting into one of better fellowship.

Old Bill Jackson, lying against his blanket roll, fell into reminiscence.

“Times past,” said he, “the Green River Rendyvous was helt right in here.  I’ve seed this place spotted with tepees—­hull valley full o’ Company men an’ free trappers an’ pack-train people—­time o’ Ashley an’ Sublette an’ my Uncle Jackson an’ all them traders.  That was right here on the Green.  Ever’body drunk an’ happy, like I ain’t now.  Mounting men togged out, new leggin’s an’ moccasins their womern had made, warriors painted up a inch o’ their lives, an’ women with brass wire an’ calico all they wanted—­maybe two-three thousand people in the Rendyvous.

“But I never seed the grass so short, an’ I never seed so much fightin’ afore in all my life as I have this trip.  This is the third time we’re jumped, an’ this time we’re lucky, shore as hell.  Pull on through to Bridger an’ fix yer wagons afore they tumble apart.  Leave the grass fer them that follows, an’ git on fur’s you kin, every wagon.  We ain’t likely to have no more trouble now.  Pile up them braves in one heap fer a warnin’ to any other bunch o’ reds that may come along to hide around the wagon ford.  New times has come on the Green.”

“Can you travel, Jackson?” asked Hall of Ohio.  “You’ve had a hard time.”

“Who?  Me?  Why shouldn’t I?  Give me time to pick up some o’ them bows an’ arrers an’ I’m ready to start.  I noticed a right fine horn bow one o’ them devils had—­the Crows allus had good bows.  That’s the yaller-an’-red brave that was itchin’ so long to slap a arrer through my ribs from behind.  I’d like to keep his bow fer him, him not needin’ it now.”

Before the brazen sun had fully risen on the second day these late peaceful farmers of Ohio, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri, were plodding along once more beside their sore-footed oxen; passing out unaided into a land which many leading men in the Government, North and South, and quite aside from political affiliations, did not value at five dollars for it all, though still a thousand miles of it lay ahead.

“Oh, then, Susannah!” roared Jed Wingate, trudging along beside Molly’s wagon in the sand.  “Don’t you cry fer me—­I’m going through to Oregon, with my banjo on my knee!”