“Do-ee turn her sideways now, boy,” cautioned Bridger.  “Set the han’le sideways squar’, so she looks wide.  Give him a fa’r shot now, fer I’m interested in this yere thing, either way she goes.  Either I lose ha’r er a mule.”

But folding his arms he faced the rifle without batting an eye, as steady as had been the other in his turn.

Jackson extended his long left arm, slowly and steadily raising the silver bead up from the chest, the throat, the chin, the forehead of his friend, then lowered it, rubbing his sore shoulder.

“Tell him to turn that han’le squar’ to me, Jim!” he called.  “The damn fool has got her all squegeed eroun’ to one side.”

Bridger reached up a hand and straightened the cup himself.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“All right!  Now hold stiddy a minute.”

Again the Indian women covered their faces, sitting motionless.  And at last came again the puff of smoke, the faint crack of the rifle, never loud in the high, rarefied air.

The straight figure of the scout never wavered.  The cup still rested on his head.  The rifleman calmly blew the smoke from his barrel, his eye on Bridger as the latter now raised a careful hand to his head.  Chardon hastened to aid, with many ejaculations.

The cup still was full, but the mud was gone from inside the handle as though poked out with a finger!  “That’s what I call shootin’, Jim,” said Jackson, “an’ reas’nable shootin’ too.  Now spill half o’ her where she’ll do some good, an’ give me the rest.  I got to be goin’ now.  I don’t want yer mule.  I fust come away from Missouri to git shet o’ mules.”

Chardon, cupbearer, stood regarding the two wild souls whom he never in his own more timid nature was to understand.  The two mountain men shook hands.  The alcohol had no more than steadied them in their rifle work, but the old exultation of their wild life came to them now once more.  Bridger clapped hand to mouth and uttered his old war cry before he drained his share of the fiery fluid.

“To the ol’ days, friend!” said he once more; “the days that’s gone, when men was men, an’ a friend could trust a friend!”

“To the ol’ days!” said Jackson in turn.  “An’ I’ll bet two better shots don’t stand to-day on the soil o’ Oregon!  But I got to be goin’, Jim.  I’m goin’ on to the Columby.  I may not see ye soon.  It’s far.”

He swung into his saddle, the rifle in its loop at the horn.  But Bridger came to him, a hand on his knee.

“I hate to see ye go, Bill.”

“Shore!” said Jackson.  “I hate to go.  Take keer yerself, Jim.”

The two Indian women had uncovered their faces and gone inside the lodge.  But old Jim Bridger sat down, back against a cottonwood, and watched the lopping figure of his friend jog slowly out into the desert.  He himself was singing now, chanting monotonously an old Indian refrain that lingered in his soul from the days of the last Rendezvous.