“Because I love her!”

Bridger sat in disgusted silence for some time.

“Well,” said he at last, “there’s some kinds o’ damned fools that kain’t be cured noways.  I expect you’re one o’ them.  Me, I hain’t so highfalutin’.  Ef I love a womern, an’ her me, somethin’s goin’ to happen.  What’s this here like?  Nothin’ happens.  Son, it’s when nothin’ happens that somethin’ else does happen.  She marries another man—­barrin’ ’Rapahoes.  A fool fer luck—­that’s you.  But there mightn’t always be a Injun hidin’ to shoot her when she gits dressed up agin an’ the minister is a-waitin’ to pernounce ’em man an’ wife.  Then whar air ye?”

He went on more kindly after a time, as he reached out a hard, sinewy hand.

“Such as her is fer the young man that has a white man’s full life to give her.  She’s purty as a doe fawn an’ kind as a thoroughbred filly.  In course ye loved her, boy.  How could ye a-help hit?  An’ ye was willin’ to go to Oregon—­ye’d plow rather’n leave sight o’ her?  I don’t blame ye, boy.  Such as her is not supported by rifle an’ trap.  Hit’s the home smoke, not the tepee fire, for her.  I ask ye nothin’ more, boy.  I’ll not ask ye what ye mean.  Man an’ boy, I’ve follered the tepee smokes—­blue an’ a-movin’ an’ a-beckonin’ they was—­an’ I never set this hand to no plow in all my life.  But in my heart two things never was wiped out—­the sight o’ the white womern’s face an’ the sight o’ the flag with stars.  I’ll help ye all I can, an’ good luck go with ye.  Work hit out yore own way.  She’s worth more’n all the gold Californy’s got buried!”

This time it was Will Banion’s hand that was suddenly extended.

“Take her secret an’ take her advice then,” said Bridger after a time.  “Ye must git in ahead to Californy.  Fust come fust served, on any beaver water.  Fer me ‘tis easy.  I kin hold my hat an’ the immigrints’ll throw money into hit.  I’ve got my fortune here, boy.  I can easy spare ye what ye need, ef ye do need a helpin’ out’n my plate.  Fer sake o’ the finest gal that ever crossed the Plains, that’s what we’ll do!  Ef I don’t, Jim Bridger’s a putrefied liar, so help me God!”

Banion made no reply at once, but could not fail of understanding.

“I’ll not need much,” said he.  “My place is to go on ahead with my men.  I don’t think there’ll be much danger now from Indians, from what I hear.  At Fort Hall I intend to split off for California.  Now I make you this proposition, not in payment for your secret, or for anything else:  If I find gold I’ll give you half of all I get, as soon as I get out or as soon as I can send it.”

“What do ye want o’ me, son?”

“Six mules and packs.  All the shovels and picks you have or can get for me at Fort Hall.  There’s another thing.”

“An’ what is that?”

“I want you to find out what Kit Carson said and what Kit Carson had.  If at any time you want to reach me—­six months, a year—­get word through by the wagon trains next year, in care of the District Court at Oregon City, on the Willamette.”