YET IF LOVE LACK
Winding down out of the hills into the grassy valley of the Upper
Sacramento, the little pack train of Banion and Jackson, six hardy mules
beside the black horse and Jackson's mountain pony, picked its way along
a gashed and trampled creek bed. The kyacks which swung heavy on the
strongest two mules might hold salt or lead or gold. It all was one to
any who might have seen, and the two silent men, the younger ahead, the
older behind, obviously were men able to hold their counsel or to defend
their property.
The smoke of a distant encampment caught the keen eye of Jackson as he
rode, humming, care-free, the burden of a song.
"Oh, then, Susannah!" admonished the old mountain man, and bade the said
Susannah to be as free of care as he himself then and there was.
"More men comin' in," said he presently. "Wonder who them people is, an'
ef hit's peace er war."
"Three men. A horse band. Two Indians. Go in easy, Bill."
Banion slowed down his own gait. His companion had tied the six mules
together, nose and tail, with the halter of the lead mule wrapped on
his own saddle horn. Each man now drew his rifle from the swing loop.
But they advanced with the appearance of confidence, for it was evident
that they had been discovered by the men of the encampment.
Apparently they were identified as well as discovered. A tall man in
leggings and moccasions, a flat felt hat over his long gray hair, stood
gazing at them, his rifle butt resting on the ground. Suddenly he
emitted an unearthly yell, whether of defiance or of greeting, and
springing to his own horse's picket pin gathered in the lariat, and
mounting bareback came on, his rifle high above his head, and repeating
again and again his war cry or salutation.
Jackson rose in his stirrups, dropped his lead line and forsook more
than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars some two mule-pack loads of
gold. His own yell rose high in answer.
"I told ye all the world'd be here!" he shouted back over his shoulder.
"Do-ee see that old thief Jim Bridger? Him I left drunk an' happy last
summer? Now what in hell brung him here?"
The two old mountain men flung off and stood hand in hand before Banion
had rescued the precious lead line and brought on the little train.
Bridger threw his hat on the ground, flung down his rifle and cast his
stoic calm aside. Both his hands caught Banion's and his face beamed,
breaking into a thousand lines.
"Boy, hit's you, then! I knowed yer hoss--he has no like in these
parts. I've traced ye by him this hundred miles below an' up agin, but
I've had no word this two weeks. Mostly I've seed that, when ye ain't
lookin' fer a b'ar, thar he is. Well, here we air, fine an' fatten, an'
me with two bottles left o' somethin' they call coggnac down in Yerba
Buena. Come on in an' we'll make medicine."
They dismounted. The two Indians, short, deep-chested, bow-legged men,
went to the packs. They gruntled as they unloaded the two larger mules.
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."
"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 Kit
told me, that at Laramie--"
"Fer I'm goin' out to Oregon, with my wash pan on my knee!" chanted Bill
Jackson, now solemnly oblivious of most of his surroundings and hence
not consciously discourteous to his friends; "Susannah, don't ye cry!"
They sat, the central figures of a scene wild enough, in a world still
primitive and young. Only one of the three remained sober and silent,
wondering, if one thing lacked, why the world was made.