Noon of the fifth day brought them to the swollen flood of the latter stream, at the crossing known as Papin’s Ferry.  Here the semicivilized Indians and traders had a single rude ferryboat, a scow operated in part by setting poles, in part by the power of the stream against a cable.  The noncommittal Indians would give no counsel as to fording.  They had ferry hire to gain.  Word passed that there were other fords a few miles higher up.  A general indecision existed, and now the train began to pile up on the south bank of the river.

Late in the afternoon the scout, Jackson, came riding back to the herd where Banion was at work, jerking up his horse in no pleased frame of mind.

“Will,” said he, “leave the boys ride now an’ come on up ahead.  We need ye.”

“What’s up?” demanded Banion.  “Anything worse?”

“Yes.  The old fool’s had a row over the ferryboat.  Hit’d take two weeks to git us all over that way, anyhow.  He’s declared fer fordin’ the hull outfit, lock, stock an’ barrel.  To save a few dollars, he’s a goin’ to lose a lot o’ loads an’ drownd a lot o’ womern an’ babies—­that’s what he’s goin’ to do.  Some o’ us called a halt an’ stood out fer a council.  We want you to come on up.

“Woodhull’s there,” he added.  “He sides with the old man, o’ course.  He rid on the same seat with that gal all day till now.  Lord knows what he done or said.  Ain’t hit nigh about time now, Major?”

“It’s nigh about time,” said Will Banion quietly.

They rode side by side, past more than a mile of the covered wagons, now almost end to end, the columns continually closing up.  At the bank of the river, at the ferry head, they found a group of fifty men.  The ranks opened as Banion and Jackson approached, but Banion made no attempt to join a council to which he had not been bidden.

A half dozen civilized Indians of the Kaws, owners or operators of the ferry, sat in a stolid line across the head of the scow at its landing stage, looking neither to the right nor the left and awaiting the white men’s pleasure.  Banion rode down to them.

“How deep?” he asked.

They understood but would not answer.

“Out of the way!” he cried, and rode straight at them.  They scattered.  He spurred his horse, the black Spaniard, over the stage and on the deck of the scow, drove him its full length, snorting; set the spurs hard at the farther end and plunged deliberately off into the swift, muddy stream.

The horse sank out of sight below the roily surface.  They saw the rider go down to his armpits; saw him swing off saddle, upstream.  The gallant horse headed for the center of the heavy current, but his master soon turned him downstream and inshore.  A hundred yards down they landed on a bar and scrambled up the bank.

Banion rode to the circle and sat dripping.  He had brought not speech but action, not theory but facts, and he had not spoken a word.