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That his companion, younger, bearded, dressed also in buckskins, was Will Banion it would have taken closer scrutiny even of a friend to determine, so much had the passing of these few months altered him in appearance and in manner. Once light of mien, now he smiled never at all. For hours he would seem to go about his duties as an automaton.
Banion knew he must keep the impounded hand back from the knife sheath or he was done. Thus close, he could make no escape. He fought fast and furiously, striving to throw, to bend, to beat back the body of a man almost as strong as himself, and now a maniac in rage and fear. The sound of the rifle shot rang through the little defile.
As they came down through the gap in the Coasts, looking out over the Grand Island and the great encampment, Jackson pulled up his horse. "Look! Someone comin' out!" Banion sat his horse awaiting the arrival of the rider, who soon cut down the intervening distance until he could well be noted.
You know; that very well." "I do know it yes. But you have other men. Where's Woodhull?" "We don't know. We think the Pawnees got him among the others." "Jackson" Banion turned to his companion "we've got to make a look-around for him. He's probably across the river somewhere." "Like enough," rejoined the scout. "But the first thing is for all us folks to git acrost the river too.
Molly advanced to where Banion's horse stood, nodding and pawing restively as was his wont. She stroked his nose, patted his sweat-soaked neck. "What a pretty horse you have, major," she said. "What's his name?" "I call him Pronto," smiled Banion. "That means sudden." "He fits the name. May I ride him?" "What? You ride him?" "Yes, surely. I'd love to. I can ride anything.
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.
"I rid him," said he. "He's a goer all right, but he ain't mean." "I don't know whether he would be bad or not with a lady," Banion still argued. "These Spanish horses are always wild. They never do get over it. You've got to be a rider." "You think I'm not a rider? I'll ride him now to show you! I'm not afraid of horses." "That's right," broke in Sam Woodhull.
Surely enough, the Banion plan of crossing, after all, was carried out, and although the river dropped a foot meantime, the attempt to ford en masse was abandoned. Little by little the wagon parks gathered on the north bank, each family assorting its own goods and joining in the general sauve qui peut.
Each fighter tried the forward jerk and trip which sometimes would do with an opponent not much skilled; but this primer work got results for neither. Banion evaded and swung into a hip lock, so swift that Woodhull left the ground. But his instinct gave him hold with one hand at his enemy's collar. He spread wide his feet and cast his weight aside, so that he came standing, after all.
But from one encampment two faces were missing until late Banion and Jackson of the Missourians. Sam Woodhull, erstwhile column captain of the great train, of late more properly to be called unattached, also was absent.
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