“But I don’t think that’s all.  The main trouble is one that I don’t like to hint to you, especially since none of us can help it.”

“Out with it, Cale!”

“The trouble is, the people don’t think they’ve got a leader.”

Jesse Wingate colored above his beard.

“That’s pretty hard,” said he.

“I know it’s hard, but I guess it’s the truth.  You and I and Hall and Kelsey—­we’re accepted as the chief council.  But there are four of us, and all this country is new to all of us.  The men now are like a bunch of cattle ready to stampede.  They’re nervous, ready to jump at anything.  Wrong way, Jesse.  They ought to be as steady as any of the trains that have gone across; 1843, when the Applegates crossed; 1846, when the Donners went—­every year since.  Our folks—­well, if you ask me, I really think they’re scared.”

“That’s hard, Cale!”

“Yes, hard for me to say to you, with your wife sad and your girl just now able to sit up—­yes, it’s hard.  Harder still since we both know it’s your own personal matter—­this quarrel of those two young men, which I don’t need explain.  That’s at the bottom of the train’s uneasiness.”

“Well, they’ve both gone now.”

“Yes, both.  If half of the both were here now you’d see the people quiet.  Oh, you can’t explain leadership, Jesse!  Some have it, most don’t.  He had.  We know he had.  I don’t suppose many of those folks ever figured it out, or do now.  But they’d fall in, not knowing why.”

“As it is, I’ll admit, there seems to be something in the air.  They say birds know when an earthquake is coming.  I feel uneasy myself, and don’t know why.  I started for Oregon.  I don’t know why.  Do you suppose—­”

The speculations of either man ceased as both caught sight of a little dust cloud far off across the sage, steadily advancing down the slope.

“Hum!  And who’s that, Jesse?” commented the Ohio leader.  “Get your big glass, Jesse.”

Wingate went to his wagon and returned with the great telescope he sometimes used, emblem of his authority.

“One man, two packs,” said he presently.  “All alone so far as I can see.  He’s Western enough—­some post-trapper, I suppose.  Rides like an Indian and dressed like one, but he’s white, because he has a beard.”

“Let me see.”  Price took the glass.  “He looks familiar!  See if you don’t think it’s Jim Bridger.  What’s he coming for—­two hundred miles away from his own post?”

It was Jim Bridger, as the next hour proved, and why he came he himself was willing to explain after he had eaten and smoked.

“I camped twelve mile back,” said he, “an’ pushed in this mornin’.  I jest had a idee I’d sornter over in here, see how ye was gittin’ along.  Is your hull train made here?”

“No,” Wingate answered.  “The Missouri wagons are ahead.”

“Is Woodhull with ye?”

“No.”