Part 36 (2/2)

”That was at Laramie. She told me to come on with you then. I could not.”

”Pore child, they mout 'a' killed her! She told me she'd git well, though--told me so to-day. I had a talk with her.” His wrinkled face broke into additional creases. ”She told me more!”

”I've no wonder.”

”Ner me. Ef I was more young and less Injun I'd love that gal! I do, anyhow, fer sake o' what I might of been ef I hadn't had to play my game the way the cards said fer me.

”She told me she was shot on her weddin' night, in her weddin'

clothes--right plum to the time an' minute o' marryin, then an' thar.

She told me she thanked G.o.d the Injun shot her, an' she wished to G.o.d he'd killed her then an' thar. I'd like such fer a bride, huh? That's one h.e.l.l of a weddin', huh? Why?”

Banion sat silent, staring at the embers.

”I know why, or part ways why. Kit an' me was drunk at Laramie. I kain't remember much. But I do ree-colleck Kit said something to me about you in the Army, with Donerphan in Mayheeco. Right then I gits patriotic.

'Hooray!' says I. Then we taken another drink. After that we fell to arguin' how much land we'd git out o' Mayheeco when the treaty was signed. He said hit war done signed now, or else hit warn't. I don't ree-colleck which, but hit was one or t'other. He had papers. Ef I see Kit agin ary time now I'll ast him what his papers was. I don't ree-colleck exact.

”All that, ye see, boy,” he resumed, ”was atter I was over to the wagons at Laramie, when I seed Miss Molly to say good-by to her. I reckon maybe I was outside o' sever'l horns even then.”

”And that was when you gave her the California nugget that Kit Carson had given you!” Banion spoke at last.

”Oh, ye spring no surprise, boy! She told me to-day she'd told you then; said she'd begged you to go on with me an' beat all the others to Californy; said she wanted you to git rich; said you an' her had parted, an' she wanted you to live things down. I was to tell ye that.

”Boy, she loves ye--not me ner that other man. The Injun womern kin love a dozen men. The white womern kain't. I'm still fool white enough fer to believe that. Of course she'd break her promise not to tell about the gold. I might 'a' knowed she'd tell the man she loved. Well, she didn't wait long. How long was. .h.i.t afore she done so--about ten minutes? Boy, she loves ye. Hit ain't no one else.”

”I think so. I'm afraid so.”

”Why don't ye marry her then, d.a.m.n ye, right here? Ef a gal loves a man he orto marry her, ef only to cure her o' bein' a d.a.m.n fool to love any man. Why don't you marry her right now?”

”Because I love her!”

Bridger sat in disgusted silence for some time.

”Well,” said he at last, ”there's some kinds o' d.a.m.ned fools that kain't be cured noways. I expect you're one o' them. Me, I hain't so highfalutin'. Ef I love a womern, an' her me, somethin's goin' to happen. What's this here like? Nothin' happens. Son, it's when nothin'

happens that somethin' else does happen. She marries another man--barrin' 'Rapahoes. A fool fer luck--that's you. But there mightn't always be a Injun hidin' to shoot her when she gits dressed up agin an'

the minister is a-waitin' to pernounce 'em man an' wife. Then whar air ye?”

He went on more kindly after a time, as he reached out a hard, sinewy hand.

”Such as her is fer the young man that has a white man's full life to give her. She's purty as a doe fawn an' kind as a thoroughbred filly. In course ye loved her, boy. How could ye a-help hit? An' ye was willin' to go to Oregon--ye'd plow rather'n leave sight o' her? I don't blame ye, boy. Such as her is not supported by rifle an' trap. Hit's the home smoke, not the tepee fire, for her. I ask ye nothin' more, boy. I'll not ask ye what ye mean. Man an' boy, I've follered the tepee smokes--blue an' a-movin' an' a-beckonin' they was--an' I never set this hand to no plow in all my life. But in my heart two things never was wiped out--the sight o' the white womern's face an' the sight o' the flag with stars. I'll help ye all I can, an' good luck go with ye. Work hit out yore own way. She's worth more'n all the gold Californy's got buried!”

This time it was Will Banion's hand that was suddenly extended.

”Take her secret an' take her advice then,” said Bridger after a time.

”Ye must git in ahead to Californy. Fust come fust served, on any beaver water. Fer me 'tis easy. I kin hold my hat an' the immigrints'll throw money into hit. I've got my fortune here, boy. I can easy spare ye what ye need, ef ye do need a helpin' out'n my plate. Fer sake o' the finest gal that ever crossed the Plains, that's what we'll do! Ef I don't, Jim Bridger's a putrefied liar, so help me G.o.d!”

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