The old Briton looked queerly at the young fellow.
"A'm beginnin'—," he said slowly, "A'm beginnin' to understand y'r lynch law in this country—an' the why."
"What do you make of it?" asked Wayland, too excited to notice the other's abstraction.
"A'm beginnin' to understand if y' monkey with the law much longer in this land, the whole Nation will go locoed like you, Wayland—with a blood thirst for righteousness—a white passion for the square deal—an' God pity—that day!"
The fugitives had reached the far shore of the lake, landed and were riding off when a second thought seemed to bring one man back to the water's edge. He stooped, heaved up a rock, threw it through the bottom of the old punt.
"You'll have to do better than that to keep me from crossing," said
Wayland.
The fellow was aiming his rifle. Wayland and Matthews jumped behind the big hemlocks.
"He's fulling a skin bag wi' water."
"Then, they intend to cross the Desert," inferred Wayland; "but they'll have to go farther to slip me."
One of the riders was scanning back with a field glass.