“He isn’t here.”

“Wingate won’t.”

“He’ll have to.”

The chief of mutineers, a grave and bearded man, waited for a time.

“This is a meeting of the train,” said he.  “In our government the majority rules.  Is there any motion on this?”

Silence.  Then rose Hall of Ohio, slowly, a solid man, with three wagons of his own.

“I’ve been against the Missouri outfit,” said he.  “They’re a wild bunch, with no order or discipline to them.  They’re not all free-soilers, even if they’re going out to Oregon.  But if one man can handle them, he can handle us.  An Army man with a Western experience—­who’ll it be unless it is their man?  So.  Mister Chairman, I move for a committee of three, yourself to be one, to ride down and ask the Missourians to join on again, all under Major Banion.”

“I’ll have to second that,” said a voice.  Price saw a dozen nods.  “You’ve heard it, men,” said he.  “All in favor rise up.”

They stood, with not many exceptions—­rough-clad, hard-headed, hard-handed men of the nation’s vanguard.  Price looked them over soberly.

“You see the vote, men,” said he.  “I wish Jess had come, but he didn’t.  Who’ll be the man to ride down?  Wingate?”

“He wouldn’t go,” said Kelsey.  “He’s got something against Banion; says he’s not right on his war record—­something—­”

“He’s right on his train record this far,” commented Price.  “We’re not electing a Sabbath-school superintendent now, but a train captain who’ll make these wagons cover twelve miles a day, average.

“Hall, you and Kelsey saddle up and ride down with me.  We’ll see what we can do.  One thing sure, something has got to be done, or we might as well turn back.  For one, I’m not used to that.”

They did saddle and ride—­to find the Missouri column coming up with intention of pitching below, at the very scene of the massacre, which was on the usual Big Vermilion ford, steep-banked on either side, but with hard bottom.

Ahead of the train rode two men at a walk, the scout Jackson, and the man they sought.  They spied him as the man on the black Spanish horse, found him a pale and tired young man, who apparently had slept as ill as they themselves.  But in straight and manful fashion they told him their errand.

The pale face of Will Banion flushed, even with the livid scorch marks got in the prairie fire the day before.  He considered.

“Gentlemen,” he said after a time, “you don’t know what you are asking of me.  It would be painful for me to take that work on now.”

“It’s painful for us to see our property lost and our families set afoot,” rejoined Caleb Price.  “It’s not pleasant for me to do this.  But it’s no question, Major Banion, what you or I find painful or pleasant.  The question is on the women and children.  You know; that very well.”

“I do know it—­yes.  But you have other men.  Where’s Woodhull?”