The kyacks were lined up and the mantas spread over them, the animals led away for feed and water.  Bridger produced a ham of venison, some beans, a bannock and some coffee—­not to mention his two bottles of fiery fluid—­before any word was passed regarding future plans or past events.

“Come here, Jim,” said Jackson after a time, tin cup in hand.  The other followed him, likewise equipped.

“Heft this pannier, Jim.”

“Uh-huh?  Well, what of hit?  What’s inter hit?”

“Not much, Jim.  Jest three-four hunderd pounds o’ gold settin’ there in them four packs.  Hit hain’t much, but hit’ll help some.”

Bridger stooped and uncovered the kyacks, unbuckled the cover straps.

“Hit’s a true fack!” he exclaimed.  “Gold!  Ef hit hain’t, I’m a putrified liar, an’ that’s all I got to say!”

Now, little by little, they told, each to other, the story of the months since they had met, Bridger first explaining his own movements.

“I left the Malheur at Boise, an’ brung along yan two boys.  Ye needn’t be a-skeered they’ll touch the cargo.  The gold means nothin’ ter ’em, but horses does.  We’ve got a good band ter drive north now.  Some we bought an’ most they stole, but no rancher cares fer horses here an’ now.

“We come through the Klamaths, ye see, an’ on south—­the old horse trail up from the Spanish country, which only the Injuns knows.  My boys say they kin take us ter the head o’ the Willamette.

“So ye did get the gold!  Eh, sir?” said Bridger, his eyes narrowing.  “The tip the gal give ye was a good one?”

“Yes,” rejoined Banion.  “But we came near losing it and more.  It was Woodhull, Jim.  He followed us in.”

“Yes, I know.  His wagons was not fur behind ye on the Humboldt.  He left right atter ye did.  He made trouble, huh?  He’ll make no more?  Is that hit, huh?”

Bill Jackson slapped the stock of his rifle in silence.  Bridger nodded.  He had been close to tragedies all his life.  They told him now of this one.  He nodded again, close lipped.

“An’ ye want courts an’ the settlements, boys?” said he.  “Fer me, when I kill a rattler, that’s enough.  Ef ye’re touchy an’ want yer ree-cord clean, why, we kin go below an’ fix hit.  Only thing is, I don’t want ter waste no more time’n I kin help, fer some o’ them horses has a ree-cord that ain’t maybe so plumb clean their own selves.  Ye ain’t goin’ out east—­ye’re goin’ north.  Hit’s easier, an’ a month er two closter, with plenty o’ feed an’ water—­the old Cayuse trail, huh?

“So Sam Woodhull got what he’s been lookin’ fer so long!” he added presently.  “Well, that simples up things some.”

“He’d o’ got hit long ago, on the Platte, ef my partner hadn’t been a damned fool,” confirmed Jackson.  “He was where we could a’ buried him nach’erl, in the sands.  I told Will then that Woodhull’d murder him the fust chancet he got.  Well, he did—­er ef he didn’t hit wasn’t no credit ter either one o’ them two.”