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."

"What differ does hit make, Bill?" remarked Bridger indifferently. "Let
bygones be bygones, huh? That's the pleasantest way, sence he's dead.

"Now here we air, with all the gold there ever was molded, an' a hull
two bottles o' coggnac left, which takes holt e'enamost better'n
Hundson's Bay rum. Ain't it a perty leetle ol' world to play with, all
with nice pink stripes erroun' hit?"

He filled his tin and broke into a roaring song:

_There was a ol' widder which had three sons--
Joshuway, James an' John.
An' one got shot, an' one got drowned,
An' th' last un got losted an' never was found_--

"Ain't hit funny, son," said he, turning to Banion with cup uplifted,
"how stiff likker allus makes me remember what I done fergot? Now