Winding down out of the hills into the grassy valley of the Upper Sacramento, the little pack train of Banion and Jackson, six hardy mules beside the black horse and Jackson’s mountain pony, picked its way along a gashed and trampled creek bed.  The kyacks which swung heavy on the strongest two mules might hold salt or lead or gold.  It all was one to any who might have seen, and the two silent men, the younger ahead, the older behind, obviously were men able to hold their counsel or to defend their property.

The smoke of a distant encampment caught the keen eye of Jackson as he rode, humming, care-free, the burden of a song.

“Oh, then, Susannah!” admonished the old mountain man, and bade the said Susannah to be as free of care as he himself then and there was.

“More men comin’ in,” said he presently.  “Wonder who them people is, an’ ef hit’s peace er war.”

“Three men.  A horse band.  Two Indians.  Go in easy, Bill.”

Banion slowed down his own gait.  His companion had tied the six mules together, nose and tail, with the halter of the lead mule wrapped on his own saddle horn.  Each man now drew his rifle from the swing loop.  But they advanced with the appearance of confidence, for it was evident that they had been discovered by the men of the encampment.

Apparently they were identified as well as discovered.  A tall man in leggings and moccasions, a flat felt hat over his long gray hair, stood gazing at them, his rifle butt resting on the ground.  Suddenly he emitted an unearthly yell, whether of defiance or of greeting, and springing to his own horse’s picket pin gathered in the lariat, and mounting bareback came on, his rifle high above his head, and repeating again and again his war cry or salutation.

Jackson rose in his stirrups, dropped his lead line and forsook more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars some two mule-pack loads of gold.  His own yell rose high in answer.

“I told ye all the world’d be here!” he shouted back over his shoulder.  “Do-ee see that old thief Jim Bridger?  Him I left drunk an’ happy last summer?  Now what in hell brung him here?”

The two old mountain men flung off and stood hand in hand before Banion had rescued the precious lead line and brought on the little train.

Bridger threw his hat on the ground, flung down his rifle and cast his stoic calm aside.  Both his hands caught Banion’s and his face beamed, breaking into a thousand lines.

“Boy, hit’s you, then!  I knowed yer hoss—­he has no like in these parts.  I’ve traced ye by him this hundred miles below an’ up agin, but I’ve had no word this two weeks.  Mostly I’ve seed that, when ye ain’t lookin’ fer a b’ar, thar he is.  Well, here we air, fine an’ fatten, an’ me with two bottles left o’ somethin’ they call coggnac down in Yerba Buena.  Come on in an’ we’ll make medicine.”

They dismounted.  The two Indians, short, deep-chested, bow-legged men, went to the packs.  They gruntled as they unloaded the two larger mules.