The trail to the store was cumbered with dead sheep which already had drawn flocks of crows, and as they rose up cawing McIvor had a vision of a picture he had once seen of War. Here was the same grim battlefield, only the victims were sheep; and there, riding off was the horde of barbarians who had left such wrack in their wake. They strung off across the Basin, and, well up in the lead, Hall could see the buckskin pony of Meshackatee. Since he had quit the arrogant Scarboroughs he had had his misgivings about Meshackatee, for he knew he stood high in their counsels; and he wondered whether this slaughter of Mexican herders and their sheep was not the result of his wiles.
He was a shrewd man, Meshackatee, and he had admitted himself that he was doing the heavy thinking for the gang. But would he now consent to turn these Indian tactics against Old Henry Bassett and his sons? Hall was loath to believe it; and yet he was not sure, for Meshackatee had a strange sense of loyalty. He called himself a hired bravo, and then in the next breath he said that no man could buy him. He would think what he pleased, only as long as he took his money he felt he owed Isham his service. And Meshackatee had made a bargain with him, Hall McIvor, which circumstances had soon brought to nothing; but Hall still wondered if Meshackatee understood, for he had favored Hall with a sly wink at parting. Was it not possible, even yet, that Meshackatee considered him a spy, and his joining the Bassetts a mere blind; and that perhaps already Allifair was waiting to greet him, when he should return and bring his news? He gazed at the huge form on the distant buckskin horse and shook his head, though sadly.
Right or wrong he had thrown in his lot with the Bassetts, and if it came to a fight he would feel it his duty to protect them against all aggression; and yet—the days were longer than any he had known and the watches of the night were endless. He could see her through his glasses when he watched the far Rock House, this woman whose heart had remained faithful to his memory when she had given him up for dead. Was it right, after all, for him to follow his conscience when it left her to work like a slave? And could he not, in a pinch, turn upon the savage Sharps and so gain his freedom once more? But no, he could never meet Isham again without shooting it out then and there. They were born to be enemies, to oppose each other to the end; and he had crossed his Rubicon when he had slapped Isham in the face and called him a coward and a fool.
There was no one at the store but the weak-eyed Mr. Johnson and a group of staring neutrals, but the bottles were everywhere and several of the settlers were drunker than strict neutrality called for. The Bassetts rode up slowly, scanning every face in the slack crowd; and while the others went in Sharps stood by outside the door, to be ready for any treachery.
"Gimme five dollars worth of smoking tobacco," began Winchester peremptorily, "and we want to git an order of grub."
"Why, yes—certainly," cringed Johnson, starting to get it and drawing back, "but—er—I'm sorry, but the Scarboroughs have forbidden me——"
"I'm talking to you!" rasped Winchester, and there was a moment of silence as the meaning of his statement went home.
"But they said they'd come back," protested Johnson in desperation, "and tear down my store if I did!"
"I'll tear it down right now!" answered Winchester, "if you don't shell out that grub."