The saddle and bridle of his mount also were a trace to the elegant, and the horse itself, a classy chestnut that showed Blue Grass blood, even then had cost a pretty penny somewhere, that was sure.
Sam Woodhull, now moving with a half dozen wagons of his own out to Oregon, was reputed well to do; reputed also to be well skilled at cards, at weapons and at women.

Townsmen accorded him first place with Molly Wingate, the beauty from east of the river, until Will Banion came back from the wars.

Since then had been another manner of war, that as ancient as male and female.
That Banion had known Woodhull in the field in Mexico he already had let slip.

What had been the cause of his sudden pulling up of his starting tongue?
Would he have spoken too much of that acquaintance?
Perhaps a closer look at the loose lips, the high cheeks, the narrow, close-set eyes of young Woodhull, his rather assertive air, his slight, indefinable swagger, his slouch in standing, might have confirmed some skeptic disposed to analysis who would have guessed him less than strong of soul and character.

For the most part, such skeptics lacked.
By this time the last belated unit of the Oregon caravan was at hand.
The feature of the dusty drivers could be seen.