“Whar’s he at?”

“We don’t know.  Major Banion and Jackson, with a half dozen packs, no wagons, have given up the trip.  They’ve split off for California—­left their wagons.”

“An’ so has Sam Woodhull, huh?”

“We suppose so.  That’s the word.  He took about fifteen wagons with him.  That’s why we look cut down.”

“Rest of ye goin’ on through, huh?”

“I am.  I hope the others will.”

“Hit’s three days on to whar the road leaves for Californy—­on the Raft River.  Mebbe more’ll leave ye thar, huh?”

“We don’t know.  We hope not.  I hear the fords are bad, especially the crossing of the Snake.  This is a big river.  My people are uneasy about it.”

“Yes, hit’s bad enough, right often.  Thar’s falls in them canons hundreds o’ feet high, makin’ a roarin’ ye kin hear forty mile, mebbe.  The big ford’s erroun’ two hunderd mile ahead.  That’d make me four hunderd mile away from home, an’ four hunderd to ride back agin’ huh?  Is that fur enough fer a ol’ man, with snow comin’ on soon?”

“You don’t mean you’d guide us on that far?  What charge?”

“I come fer that, mainly.  Charge ye?  I won’t charge ye nothin’.  What do ye s’pose Jim Bridger’d care ef ye all was drownded in the Snake?  Ain’t thar plenty more pilgrims whar ye all come from?  Won’t they be out here next year, with money ter spend with my pardner Vasquez an’ me?”

“Then how could we pay you?”

“Ye kain’t.  Whar’s Miss Molly?”

“You want to see her?”

“Yes, else why’d I ask?”

“Come,” said Wingate, and led the way to Molly’s little cart.  The girl was startled when she saw the old scout, her wide eyes asking her question.

“Mornin’, Miss Molly!” he began, his leathery face wrinkling in a smile.  “Ye didn’t expect me, an’ I didn’t neither.  I’m glad ye’re about well o’ that arrer wound.  I kerried a arrerhead under my shoulder blade sever’l years oncet, ontel Preacher Whitman cut hit out.  Hit felt right crawly all the time till then.

“Yes, I jest sorntered up couple hundred mile this mornin’, Miss Molly, ter see how ye all was gettin’ along—­one thing er another.”

Without much regard to others, he now led Molly a little apart and seated her on the sage beside him.

“Will Banion and Bill Jackson has went on to Californy, Miss Molly,” said he.  “You know why.”

Mollie nodded.

“Ye’d orto!  Ye told him.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I know.  Him an’ me had a talk.  Owin’ you an’ me all he’ll ever make, he allowed to pay nothin’!  Which is, admittin’ he loves you, he don’t take no advice, ter finish that weddin’ with another man substertuted.  No, says he, ‘I kain’t marry her, because I love her!’ says he.  Now, that’s crazy.  Somethin’ deep under that, Miss Molly.”

“Let’s not talk about it, please.”

“All right.  Let’s talk erbout Sam Woodhull, huh?”