JIM BRIDGER FORGETS
"What's wrong with the people, Cale?" demanded Jesse Wingate of his
stouthearted associate, Caleb Price. The sun was two hours high, but not
all the breakfast fires were going. Men were moody, truculent, taciturn,
as they went about their duties.
Caleb Price bit into his yellow beard as he gazed down the irregular
lines of the encampment.
"Do you want me to tell you the truth, Jesse?"
"Why, yes!"
"Well, then, it seems to me the truth is that this train has lost
focus."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I don't know that I'm right--don't know I can make my guess plain. Of
course, every day we lay up, the whole train goes to pieces. The thing
to do is to go a little way each day--get into the habit. You can't wear
out a road as long as this one by spurts--it's steady does it.
"But I don't think that's all. The main trouble is one that I don't like
to hint to you, especially since none of us can help it."
"Out with it, Cale!"
"The trouble is, the people don't think they've got a leader."
Jesse Wingate colored above his beard.
"That's pretty hard," said he.
"I know it's hard, but I guess it's the truth. You and I and Hall and
Kelsey--we're accepted as the chief council. But there are four of us,
and all this country is new to all of us. The men now are like a bunch
of cattle ready to stampede. They're nervous, ready to jump at anything.
Wrong way, Jesse. They ought to be as steady as any of the trains that
have gone across; 1843, when the Applegates crossed; 1846, when the
Donners went--every year since. Our folks--well, if you ask me, I really
think they're scared."
"That's hard, Cale!"
"Yes, hard for me to say to you, with your wife sad and your girl just
now able to sit up--yes, it's hard. Harder still since we both know it's
your own personal matter--this quarrel of those two young men, which I
don't need explain. That's at the bottom of the train's uneasiness."
"Well, they've both gone now."
"Yes, both. If half of the both were here now you'd see the people
quiet. Oh, you can't explain leadership, Jesse! Some have it, most
don't. He had. We know he had. I don't suppose many of those folks ever
figured it out, or do now. But they'd fall in, not knowing why."
"As it is, I'll admit, there seems to be something in the air. They say
birds know when an earthquake is coming. I feel uneasy myself, and don't
know why. I started for Oregon. I don't know why. Do you suppose--"
The speculations of either man ceased as both caught sight of a little
dust cloud far off across the sage, steadily advancing down the slope.
"Hum! And who's that, Jesse?" commented the Ohio leader. "Get your big
glass, Jesse."
Wingate went to his wagon and returned with the great telescope he
sometimes used, emblem of his authority.
"One man, two packs," said he presently. "All alone so far as I can see.
He's Western enough--some post-trapper, I suppose. Rides like an Indian
and dressed like one, but he's white, because he has a beard."
"Let me see." Price took the glass. "He looks familiar! See if you don't
think it's Jim Bridger. What's he coming for--two hundred miles away
from his own post?"
It was Jim Bridger, as the next hour proved, and why he came he himself
was willing to explain after he had eaten and smoked.
"I camped twelve mile back," said he, "an' pushed in this mornin'. I
jest had a idee I'd sornter over in here, see how ye was gittin' along.
Is your hull train made here?"
"No," Wingate answered. "The Missouri wagons are ahead."
"Is Woodhull with ye?"
"No."
"Whar's he at?"
"We don't know. Major Banion and Jackson, with a half dozen packs, no
wagons, have given up the trip. They've split off for California--left
their wagons."
"An' so has Sam Woodhull, huh?"
"We suppose so. That's the word. He took about fifteen wagons with him.
That's why we look cut down."
"Rest of ye goin' on through, huh?"
"I am. I hope the others will."
"Hit's three days on to whar the road leaves for Californy--on the Raft
River. Mebbe more'll leave ye thar, huh?"
"We don't know. We hope not. I hear the fords are bad, especially the
crossing of the Snake. This is a big river. My people are uneasy about
it."
"Yes, hit's bad enough, right often. Thar's falls in them cañons
hundreds o' feet high, makin' a roarin' ye kin hear forty mile, mebbe.
The big ford's erroun' two hunderd mile ahead. That'd make me four
hunderd mile away from home, an' four hunderd to ride back agin' huh? Is
that fur enough fer a ol' man, with snow comin' on soon?"
"You don't mean you'd guide us on that far? What charge?"
"I come fer that, mainly. Charge ye? I won't charge ye nothin'. What do
ye s'pose Jim Bridger'd care ef ye all was drownded in the Snake? Ain't
thar plenty more pilgrims whar ye all come from? Won't they be out here
next year, with money ter spend with my pardner Vasquez an' me?"
"Then how could we pay you?"
"Ye kain't. Whar's Miss Molly?"
"You want to see her?"
"Yes, else why'd I ask?"
"Come," said Wingate, and led the way to Molly's little cart. The girl
was startled when she saw the old scout, her wide eyes asking her
question.
"Mornin', Miss Molly!" he began, his leathery face wrinkling in a smile.
"Ye didn't expect me, an' I didn't neither. I'm glad ye're about well o'
that arrer wound. I kerried a arrerhead under my shoulder blade sever'l
years oncet, ontel Preacher Whitman cut hit out. Hit felt right crawly
all the time till then.
"Yes, I jest sorntered up couple hundred mile this mornin', Miss Molly,
ter see how ye all was gettin' along--one thing er another."
Without much regard to others, he now led Molly a little apart and
seated her on the sage beside him.
"Will Banion and Bill Jackson has went on to Californy, Miss Molly,"
said he. "You know why."
Mollie nodded.
"Ye'd orto! Ye told him."
"Yes, I did."
"I know. Him an' me had a talk. Owin' you an' me all he'll ever make,
he allowed to pay nothin'! Which is, admittin' he loves you, he don't
take no advice, ter finish that weddin' with another man substertuted.
No, says he, 'I kain't marry her, because I love her!' says he. Now,
that's crazy. Somethin' deep under that, Miss Molly."
"Let's not talk about it, please."
"All right. Let's talk erbout Sam Woodhull, huh?"
"No!"
"Then mebbe I'd better be goin'. I know you don't want ter talk erbout
me!" His wrinkling smile said he had more to tell.
"Miss Molly," said he at last, "I mout as well tell ye. Sam Woodhull is
on the way atter Will Banion. He's like enough picked out a fine bunch
o' horse thiefs ter go erlong with him. He knows somethin' erbout the
gold--I jest found out how.
"Ye see, some men ain't above shinin' up to a Injun womern even, such
bein' mebbe lonesome. Sam Woodhull wasn't. He seed one o' my fam'ly
wearin' a shiny thing on her neck. Hit were a piece o' gold Kit give me
atter I give you mine. He trades the womern out o' her necklace--fer all
o' two pesos, Mexican. But she not talkin' Missoury, an' him not talkin'
Shoshone, they don't git fur on whar the gold come from.
"She done told him she got hit from me, but he don't say a word ter me
erbout that; he's too wise. But she did tell him how Will Banion gits
some mules an' packs o' me. From then, plain guessin', he allows ter
watch Banion.
"My womern keeps sayin'--not meanin' no harm--thet thar's plenty more
necklaces in Cal'for; because she's heard me an' Banion say that word,
'Californy.'
"Slim guessin' hit were, Miss Molly, but enough fer a man keen as Sam,
that's not pertickler, neither. His plan was ter watch whar the packs
went. He knowed ef Banion went ter Oregon he'd not use packs.
"Huh! Fine time he'll have, follerin' that boy an' them mules with
wagons! I'm easier when I think o' that. Because, Miss Molly, ef them
two does meet away from friends o' both, thar's goin' to be trouble, an'
trouble only o' one kind."
Again Molly Wingate nodded, pale and silent.
"Well, a man has ter take keer o' his own self," went on Bridger. "But
that ain't all ner most what brung me here."
"What was it then?" demanded Molly. "A long ride!"
"Yeh. Eight hunderd mile out an' back, ef I see ye across the Snake,
like I allow I'd better do. I'm doin' hit fer you, Miss Molly. I'm ol'
an' ye're young; I'm a wild man an' ye're one o' God's wimern. But I had
sisters oncet--white they was, like you. So the eight hunderd mile is
light. But thet ain't why I come, neither, or all why, yit."
"What is it then you want to tell me? Is it about--him?"
Bridger nodded. "Yes. The only trouble is, I don't know what it is."
"Now you're foolish!"
"Shore I am! Ef I had a few drinks o' good likker mebbe I'd be
foolisher--er wiser. Leastways, I'd be more like I was when I plumb
forgot what 'twas Kit Carson said to me when we was spreein' at Laramie.
He had somethin' ter do, somethin' he was goin' ter do, somethin' I was
ter do fer him, er mebee-so, next season, atter he got East an' got
things done he was goin' ter do. Ye see, Kit's in the Army."
"Was it about--him?"
"That's what I kain't tell. I jest sorntered over here a few hunderd
mile ter ask ye what ye s'pose it is that I've plumb fergot, me not
havin' the same kind o' likker right now.
"When me an' Bill was havin' a few afore he left I was right on the
p'int o' rememberin' what it was I was fergittin'. I don't make no
doubt, ef Kit an' me er Bill an' me could only meet an' drink along day
er so hit'd all come plain to me. But all by myself, an' sober, an' not
sociable with Dang Yore Eyes jest now, I sw'ar, I kain't think o'
nothin'. What's a girl's mind fer ef hit hain't to think o' things?"
"It was about--him? It was about Kit Carson, something he had--was it
about the gold news?"
"Mebbe. I don't know."
"Did he--Mr. Banion--say anything?"
"Mostly erbout you, an' not much. He only said ef I ever got any mail
to send it ter the Judge in the Willamette settlements."
"He does expect to come back to Oregon!"
"How can I tell? My belief, he'd better jump in the Percific Ocean. He's
a damn fool, Miss Molly. Ef a man loves a womern, that's somethin' that
never orto wait. Yit he goes teeterin' erroun' like he had from now ter
doomsday ter marry the girl which he loves too much fer ter marry her.
That makes me sick. Yit he has resemblances ter a man, too, some
ways--faint resemblances, yes. Fer instance, I'll bet a gun flint these
here people that's been hearin' erbout the ford o' the Snake'd be a hull
lot gladder ef they knew Will Banion was erlong. Huh?"
Molly Wingate was looking far away, pondering many things.
"Well, anyways, hit's even-Stephen fer them both two now," went on
Bridger, "an' may God perteck the right an' the devil take the
him'mostest. They'll like enough both marry Injun wimern an' settle down
in Californy. Out o' sight, out o' mind. Love me little, love me long.
Lord Lovell, he's mounted his milk-white steed. Farewell, sweet sir,
partin' is such sweet sorrer; like ol' Cap'n Bonneville uster say. But
o' all the messes any fool bunch o' pilgrims ever got inter, this is the
worstest, an' hit couldn't be no worser.
"Now, Miss Molly, ye're a plumb diserpintment ter me. I jest drapped in
ter see ef ye couldn't tell me what hit was Kit done told me. But ye
kain't. Whar is yer boasted superiorness as a womern?
"But now, me, havin' did forty mile a day over that country yan, I need
sustenance, an' I'm goin' to see ef ol' Cap' Grant, the post trader, has
ary bit o' Hundson Bay rum left. Ef he has hit's mine, an' ef not, Jim
Bridger's a liar, an' that I say deliberate. I'm goin' to try to git
inter normal condition enough fer to remember a few plain, simple
truths, seein' as you all kain't. Way hit is, this train's in a hell of
a fix, an' hit couldn't be no worser."