Emory bore down upon his opponent viciously. There was a wild swinging of fists and the swift escape of breath. The lad’s head snapped back and his hands went down; he was sprawled upon the wet turf with a hand to his stomach, writhing from side to side and sobbing like a child. “Teach you manners!” yelled Emory, jumping forward. His hat fell off, and the mop of black hair waved wildly above the cowlick. The dark face was a seamed battleground of unrepressed fury. The two followers looked on with satisfaction. Tom Cameron brought his arm from beneath the capote, bearing a pistol. “That’s a plenty. Stop right thar.” Emory stumbled and brought up. “Plenty? Why, I ain’t begun to teach him manners.” “You’ve had yore chance. That’s plumb plenty. Git along and leave him alone.” “Maybe you’d like to try it out,” said Emory, his eyes growing wider. “I’ve had my fill of yore ways. Climb down and risk a fall.” “When I fight with my fists I’ll choose the place,” replied Cameron. “Want to have somebody holding a gun on the rest of yore friends.” “Haw! Reckon yore back is made out o’ the color yaller!” “Thar’ll be plenty o’ time to decide that, too.” Cameron pulled on his mustache until the skin grew white at the roots. “When I come callin’ you’ll git plenty chance to prove it.” From beyond the curtain of fog there emerged an unusual, disconcerting sound. It started with a distant shout from the front, half inaudible. The successive wagons picked it up, men and women alike adding their voices until, when the rear of the column was reached, it had become a mighty cry. Guns were fired, pans beaten. A woman screamed at the top of her voice: “Glory, glory, glory! Oregon City! Praise God!” The whole train resounded with the racket. Dogs were yapping; the cattle bawled out of fear. Some one took up a banjo and a popular tune trembled on a nasal voice while the strings made a flat, unmusical sound against the wet sounding board of the instrument. No matter, the song was sung with vigor, with a dozen voices picking it up. Journey’s end at last! Somewhere in front was the goal they sought, the shining reward that had held their courage night after night. Somewhere in the mist was Oregon City, the capital of the provisional government of Oregon, whose fame had lured them away from solid, comfortable homes and sent them all the way across the desert and over the mountains. Oregon and plenty! Emory gave a last scornful glance at Cameron, sprang to saddle and tore through the fog, with his followers close behind. The fallen lad picked himself up and hobbled toward the train with an apologetic glance at his protector. “Reckon they’ll be layin’ for you now,” he said. “There’s been plenty of talk of a fight atween you and him. Whole camp speaks of it.” He grew angry all in a moment. “Don’t you let him swipe yore girl.” Then, ashamed at the outburst, he broke into a trot and vanished.