Dumphy, the red-haired man, had rudely shoved and stricken the woman with the baby—she was his wife, and this conjugal act may have been partly habit—as she was crawling nearer the speaker. She did not seem to notice the blow or its giver—the apathy with which these people received blows or slights was more terrible than wrangling—but said assuringly, when she had reached the side of the young man—
"To-morrow, then?"
The face of the young man softened as he made the same reply he had made for the last eight days to the same question—
"To-morrow, surely!"
She crawled away, still holding the effigy of her dead baby very carefully, and retreated down the opening.
"'Pears to me you don't do much anyway, out scouting! 'Pears to me you ain't worth shucks!" said the harsh-voiced woman, glancing at the speaker. "Why don't some on ye take his place? Why do you trust your lives and the lives of women to that thar Ashley?" she continued, with her voice raised to a strident bark.
The hysterical young man, Henry March, who sat next to her, turned a wild scared face upon her, and then, as if fearful of being dragged into the conversation, disappeared hastily after Mrs. Dumphy.
Ashley shrugged his shoulders, and, replying to the group, rather than any individual speaker, said curtly—
"There's but one chance—equal for all—open to all. You know what it is. To stay here is death; to go cannot be worse than that."
He rose and walked slowly away up the cañon a few rods to where another mound was visible, and disappeared from their view. When he had gone, a querulous chatter went around the squatting circle.