But maybe the emigrants themselves knew about these singular matters, or would when they had read their letters.  Yes, of course, the Missouri movers had left a lot of letters, some for their folks back East next year maybe, but some for people in the train.  Banion, Woodhull—­had they left any word?  Why, yes, both of them.  The trader smiled.  One each.  To the same person, yes.  Well, lucky girl!  But that black horse now—­the Nez Perces would give a hundred ponies for him.  But he wouldn’t trade.  A sour young man.  But Woodhull, now, the one with the wagons, talked more.  And they each had left a letter for the same girl!  And this was Miss Molly Wingate?  Well, the trader did not blame them!  These American girls!  They were like roses to the old traders, cast away this lifetime out here in the desert.

News?  Why, yes, no train ever came through that did not bring news and get news at old Fort Hall—­and so on.

The inclosure of the old adobe fur-trading post was thronged by the men and women of the Wingate train.  Molly Wingate at first was not among them.  She sat, chin on her hand, on a wagon tongue in the encampment, looking out over the blue-gray desert to the red-and-gold glory of the sinking sun.  Her mother came to her and placed in her lap the two letters, stood watching her.

“One from each,” said she sententiously, and turned away.

The girl’s face paled as she opened the one she had felt sure would find her again, somewhere, somehow.  It said: 

DEAREST:  I write to Molly Wingate, because and only because I know she still is Molly Wingate.  It might be kinder to us both if I did not write at all but went my way and left it all to time and silence.  I found I could not.

     There will be no other woman, in all my life, for me.  I cannot lay
     any vow on you.  If I could, if I dared, I would say:  “Wait for a
     year, while I pray for a year—­and God help us both.”

As you know, I now have taken your advice.  Bridger and I are joined for the California adventure.  If the gold is there, as Carson thinks, I may find more fortune than I have earned.  More than I could earn you gave me—­when I was young.  That was two months ago.  Now I am old.

Keep the news of the gold, if it can be kept, as long as you can.  No doubt it will spread from other sources, but so far as I know—­and thanks only to you—­I am well ahead of any other adventurer from the East this season, and, as you know, winter soon will seal the trails against followers.  Next year, 1849, will be the big rush, if it all does not flatten.

I can think of no one who can have shared our secret.  Carson will be East by now, but he is a government man, and close of mouth with strangers.  Bridger, I am sure—­for the odd reason that he worships you—­will tell no one else, especially since he shares profits with me, if I survive and succeed.  One doubt