His eyes covered the council rapidly, resting on the figure of Sam Woodhull, squatting on his heels.  As though to answer the challenge of his gaze, the latter rose.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “I’m not, myself, governed by any mere spirit of bravado.  It’s swimming water, yes—­any fool knows that, outside of yon one.  What I do say is that we can’t afford to waste time here fooling with that boat.  We’ve got to swim it.  I agree with you, Wingate.  This river’s been forded by the trains for years, and I don’t see as we need be any more chicken-hearted than those others that went through last year and earlier.  This is the old fur-trader crossing, the Mormons crossed here, and so can we.”

Silence met his words.  The older men looked at the swollen stream, turned to the horseman who had proved it.

“What does Major Banion say?” spoke up a voice.

“Nothing!” was Banion’s reply.  “I’m not in your council, am I?”

“You are, as much as any man here,” spoke up Caleb Price, and Hall and Kelsey added yea to that.  “Get down.  Come in.”

Banion threw his rein to Jackson and stepped into the ring, bowing to Jesse Wingate, who sat as presiding officer.

“Of course we want to hear what Mr. Banion has to say,” said he.  “He’s proved part of the question right now.  I’ve always heard it’s fording, part way, at Papin’s Ferry.  It don’t look it now.”

“The river’s high, Mr. Wingate,” said Banion.  “If you ask me, I’d rather ferry than ford.  I’d send the women and children over by this boat.  We can make some more out of the wagon boxes.  If they leak we can cover them with hides.  The sawmill at the mission has some lumber.  Let’s knock together another boat or two.  I’d rather be safe than sorry, gentlemen; and believe me, she’s heavy water yonder.”

“I’ve never seed the Kaw so full,” asserted Jackson, “an’ I’ve crossed her twenty times in spring flood.  Do what ye like, you-all—­ole Missoury’s goin’ to take her slow an’ keerful.”

“Half of you Liberty men are a bunch of damned cowards!” sneered Woodhull.

There was silence.  An icy voice broke it.

“I take it, that means me?” said Will Banion.

“It does mean you, if you want to take it that way,” rejoined his enemy.  “I don’t believe in one or two timid men holding up a whole train.”

“Never mind about holding up the train—­we’re not stopping any man from crossing right now.  What I have in mind now is to ask you, do you classify me as a coward just because I counsel prudence here?”

“You’re the one is holding back.”

“Answer me!  Do you call that to me?”

“I do answer you, and I do call it to you then!” flared Woodhull.

“I tell you, you’re a liar, and you know it, Sam Woodhull!  And if it pleases your friends and mine, I’d like to have the order now made on unfinished business.”

Not all present knew what this meant, for only a few knew of the affair at the rendezvous, the Missourians having held their counsel in the broken and extended train, where men might travel for days and not meet.  But Woodhull knew, and sprang to his feet, hand on revolver.  Banion’s hand was likewise employed at his wet saddle holster, to which he sprang, and perhaps then one man would have been killed but for Bill Jackson, who spurred between.