“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.  Let him go to hell.”

“We want you, Major,” said Hall quietly, and even Kelsey nodded.

“What shall I do, Jackson?” demanded Banion.

“Fly inter hit, Will,” replied that worthy.  “Leastways, take hit on long enough so’s to git them acrost an’ help git their cattle together.  Ye couldn’t git Wingate to work under ye no ways.  But mebbe-so we can show ’em fer a day er so how Old Missoury gits acrost a country.  Uh-huh?”

Again Banion considered, pondering many things of which none of these knew anything at all.  At length he drew aside with the men of the main train.

“Park our wagons here, Bill,” he said.  “See that they are well parked, too.  Get out your guards.  I’ll go up and see what we can do.  We’ll all cross here.  Have your men get all the trail ropes out and lay in a lot of dry cottonwood logs.  We’ll have to raft some of the stuff over.  See if there’s any wild grapevines along the bottoms.  They’ll help hold the logs.  So long.”

He turned, and with the instinct of authority rode just a half length ahead of the others on the return.

Jesse Wingate, a sullen and discredited Achilles, held to his tent, and Molly did as much, her stout-hearted and just-minded mother being the main source of Wingate news.  Banion kept as far away from them as possible, but had Jed sent for.

“Jed,” said he, “first thing, you get your boys together and go after the cattle.  Most of them went downstream with the wind.  The hobbled stuff didn’t come back down the trail and must be below there too.  The cows wouldn’t swim the big river on a run.  If there’s rough country, with any shelter, they’d like enough begin to mill—­it might be five miles, ten—­I can’t guess.  You go find out.

“Now, you others, first thing, get your families all out in the sun.  Spread out the bedclothes and get them dried.  Build fires and cook your best right away—­have the people eat.  Get that bugle going and play something fast—­Sweet Hour of Prayer is for evening, not now.  Give ’em Reveille, and then the cavalry charge.  Play Susannah.

“I’m going to ride the edge of the burning to look for loose stock.  You others get a meal into these people—­coffee, quinine, more coffee.  Then hook up all the teams you can and move down to the ford.  We’ll be on the Platte and among the buffalo in a week or ten days.  Nothing can stop us.  All you need is just a little more coffee and a little more system, and then a good deal more of both.

“Now’s a fine time for this train to shake into place,” he added.  “You, Price, take your men and go down the lines.  Tell your kinfolk and families and friends and neighbors to make bands and hang together.  Let ’em draw cuts for place if they like, but stick where they go.  We can’t tell how the grass will be on ahead, and we may have to break the train into sections on the Platte; but we’ll break it ourselves, and not see it fall apart or fight apart.  So?”