“Ye came to see me about her, Miss Molly, didn’t ye?” began Bridger after a long time, kicking the embers of the tepee fire together with the toe of his moccasin.

“How do you know that?”

“I kin read signs.”

“Yes, she sent me.”

“When?”

“That was at Laramie.  She told me to come on with you then.  I could not.”

“Pore child, they mout ‘a’ killed her!  She told me she’d git well, though—­told me so to-day.  I had a talk with her.”  His wrinkled face broke into additional creases.  “She told me more!”

“I’ve no wonder.”

“Ner me.  Ef I was more young and less Injun I’d love that gal!  I do, anyhow, fer sake o’ what I might of been ef I hadn’t had to play my game the way the cards said fer me.

“She told me she was shot on her weddin’ night, in her weddin’ clothes—­right plum to the time an’ minute o’ marryin, then an’ thar.  She told me she thanked God the Injun shot her, an’ she wished to God he’d killed her then an’ thar.  I’d like such fer a bride, huh?  That’s one hell of a weddin’, huh?  Why?”

Banion sat silent, staring at the embers.

“I know why, or part ways why.  Kit an’ me was drunk at Laramie.  I kain’t remember much.  But I do ree-colleck Kit said something to me about you in the Army, with Donerphan in Mayheeco.  Right then I gits patriotic.  ‘Hooray!’ says I. Then we taken another drink.  After that we fell to arguin’ how much land we’d git out o’ Mayheeco when the treaty was signed.  He said hit war done signed now, or else hit warn’t.  I don’t ree-colleck which, but hit was one or t’other.  He had papers.  Ef I see Kit agin ary time now I’ll ast him what his papers was.  I don’t ree-colleck exact.

“All that, ye see, boy,” he resumed, “was atter I was over to the wagons at Laramie, when I seed Miss Molly to say good-by to her.  I reckon maybe I was outside o’ sever’l horns even then.”

“And that was when you gave her the California nugget that Kit Carson had given you!” Banion spoke at last.

“Oh, ye spring no surprise, boy!  She told me to-day she’d told you then; said she’d begged you to go on with me an’ beat all the others to Californy; said she wanted you to git rich; said you an’ her had parted, an’ she wanted you to live things down.  I was to tell ye that.

“Boy, she loves ye—­not me ner that other man.  The Injun womern kin love a dozen men.  The white womern kain’t.  I’m still fool white enough fer to believe that.  Of course she’d break her promise not to tell about the gold.  I might ‘a’ knowed she’d tell the man she loved.  Well, she didn’t wait long.  How long was hit afore she done so—­about ten minutes?  Boy, she loves ye.  Hit ain’t no one else.”

“I think so.  I’m afraid so.”

“Why don’t ye marry her then, damn ye, right here?  Ef a gal loves a man he orto marry her, ef only to cure her o’ bein’ a damn fool to love any man.  Why don’t you marry her right now?”