But these matters of the outside world were not the only ones of interest, whether to the post traders or the newly arrived emigrants.  Had others preceded them?  How many?  When?  Why, yes, a week earlier fifty wagons of one train, Missouri men, led by a man on a great black horse and an old man, a hunter.  Banion?  Yes, that was the name, and the scout was Jackson—­Bill Jackson, an old-time free trapper.  Well, these two had split off for California, with six good pack mules, loaded light.  The rest of the wagons had gone on to the Snake.  But why these two had bought the last shovels and the only pick in all the supplies at old Fort Hall no man could tell.  Crazy, of course; for who could pause to work on the trail with pick or shovel, with winter coming on at the Sierra crossing?

But not crazier than the other band who had come in three days ago, also ahead of the main train.  Woodhull?  Yes, that was the name—­Woodhull.  He had twelve or fifteen wagons with him, and had bought supplies for California, though they all had started for Oregon.  Well, they soon would know more about the Mary’s River and the Humboldt Desert.  Plenty of bones, there, sure!

But even so, a third of the trains, these past five years, had split off at the Raft River and given up hope of Oregon.  California was much better—­easier to reach and better when you got there.  The road to Oregon was horrible.  The crossings of the Snake, especially the first crossing, to the north bank, was a gamble with death for the whole train.  And beyond that, to the Blue Mountains, the trail was no trail at all.  Few ever would get through, no one knew how many had perished.  Three years ago Joe Meek had tried to find a better trail west of the Blues.  All lost, so the story said.  Why go to Oregon?  Nothing there when you got there.  California, now, had been settled and proved a hundred years and more.  Every year men came this far east to wait at Fort Hall for the emigrant trains and to persuade them to go to California, not to Oregon.

But what seemed strange to the men at the trading post was the fact that Banion had not stopped or asked a question.  He appeared to have made up his mind long earlier, and beyond asking for shovels he had wanted nothing.  The same way with Woodhull.  He had come in fast and gone out fast, headed for the Raft River trail to California, the very next morning.  Why?  Usually men stopped here at Fort Hall, rested, traded, got new stock, wanted to know about the trail ahead.  Both Banion and Woodhull struck Fort Hall with their minds already made up.  They did not talk.  Was there any new word about the California trail, down at Bridger?  Had a new route over the Humboldt Basin been found, or something of that sort?  How could that be?  If so, it must be rough and needing work in places, else why the need for so many shovels?