The Covered Wagon | Page 3

stolid creatures which showed harness rubs and not
whitened saddle hairs.

"Good morning, madam," said he in a pleasant, quiet voice. "Good
morning, sir. You are Mr. and Mrs. Jesse Wingate, I believe. Your
daughter yonder told me so."
"That's my name," said Jesse Wingate, eyeing the newcomer
suspiciously, but advancing with ungloved hand. "You're from the
Liberty train?"
"Yes, sir. My name is Banion--William Banion. You may not know me.
My family were Kentuckians before my father came out to Franklin. I
started up in the law at old Liberty town yonder not so long ago, but
I've been away a great deal."
"The law, eh?" Jesse Wingate again looked disapproval of the young
man's rather pronouncedly neat turnout. "Then you're not going West?"
"Oh, yes, I am, if you please, sir. I've done little else all my life. Two
years ago I marched with all the others, with Doniphan, for Mexico.
Well, the war's over, and the treaty's likely signed. I thought it high
time to march back home. But you know how it is--the long trail's in
my blood now. I can't settle down."
Wingate nodded. The young man smilingly went on:
"I want to see how it is in Oregon. What with new titles and the
like--and a lot of fighting men cast in together out yonder, too--there
ought to be as much law out there as here, don't you think? So I'm
going to seek my fortune in the Far West. It's too close and tame in here
now. I'm"--he smiled just a bit more obviously and deprecatingly--"I'm
leading yonder caballad of our neighbors, with a bunch of Illinois and
Indiana wagons. They call me Col. William Banion. It is not right--I
was no more than Will Banion, major under Doniphan. I am not that
now."
A change, a shadow came over his face. He shook it off as though it
were tangible.
"So I'm at your service, sir. They tell me you've been elected captain of

the Oregon train. I wanted to throw in with you if I might, sir. I know
we're late--we should have been in last night. I rode in to explain that.
May we pull in just beside you, on this water?"
Molly Wingate, on whom the distinguished address of the stranger, his
easy manner and his courtesy had not failed to leave their impression,
answered before her husband.
"You certainly can, Major Banion."
"Mister Banion, please."
"Well then, Mister Banion. The water and grass is free. The day's
young. Drive in and light down. You said you saw our daughter,
Molly--I know you did, for that's her now."
The young man colored under his bronze of tan, suddenly shy.
"I did," said he. "The fact is, I met her earlier this spring at Clay
Seminary, where she taught. She told me you-all were moving West
this spring--said this was her last day. She asked if she might ride out
with our wagons to the rendezvous. Well--"
"That's a fine horse you got there," interrupted young Jed Wingate.
"Spanish?"
"Yes, sir."
"Wild?"
"Oh, no, not now; only of rather good spirit. Ride him if you like.
Gallop back, if you'd like to try him, and tell my people to come on and
park in here. I'd like a word or so with Mr. Wingate."
With a certain difficulty, yet insistent, Jed swung into the deep saddle,
sitting the restive, rearing horse well enough withal, and soon was off
at a fast pace down the trail. They saw him pull up at the head of the
caravan and motion, wide armed, to the riders, the train not halting at
all.

He joined the two equestrian figures on ahead, the girl and the young
man whom his mother had named as Sam Woodhull. They could see
him shaking hands, then doing a curvet or so to show off his newly
borrowed mount.
"He takes well to riding, your son," said the newcomer approvingly.
"He's been crazy to get West," assented the father. "Wants to get among
the buffalo."
"We all do," said Will Banion. "None left in Kentucky this generation
back; none now in Missouri. The Plains!" His eye gleamed.
"That's Sam Woodhull along," resumed Molly Wingate. "He was with
Doniphan."
"Yes."
Banion spoke so shortly that the good dame, owner of a sought-for
daughter, looked at him keenly.
"He lived at Liberty, too. I've known Molly to write of him."
"Yes?" suddenly and with vigor. "She knows him then?"
"Why, yes."
"So do I," said Banion simply. "He was in our regiment--captain and
adjutant, paymaster and quartermaster-chief, too, sometimes. The Army
Regulations never meant much with Doniphan's column. We did as we
liked--and did the best we could, even with paymasters and
quartermasters!"
He colored suddenly, and checked, sensitive to a possible charge of