SERGEANT CRISP
The horror of the day followed Cameron through the night and awoke with him next morning. Every time his eyes found the Indian his teeth came together in a grinding rage as he repeated his vow, “Some day I shall bring you to justice. So help me God!”
Against Raven somehow he could not maintain the same heat of rage. That he was a party to the murder of the Stonies there was little reason to doubt, but as all next day they lay in the sunny glade resting the ponies, or went loping easily along the winding trails making ever towards the Southwest, the trader's cheerful face, his endless tales, and his invincible good humour stole from Cameron's heart, in spite of his firm resolve, the fierceness of his wrath. But the resolve was none the less resolute that one day he would bring this man to justice.
As they journeyed on, the woods became more open and the trees larger. Mid-day found them resting by a little lake, from which a stream flowed into the upper reaches of the Columbia River.
“We shall make the Crow's Nest trail by to-morrow night,” said Raven, “where we shall part; not to your very great sorrow, I fancy, either.”
The evening before Cameron would have said, “No, but to my great joy,” and it vexed him that he could not bring himself to say so to-day with any great show of sincerity. There was a charm about this man that he could not resist.
“And yet,” continued Raven, allowing his eyes to rest dreamily upon the lake, “in other circumstances I might have found in you an excellent friend, and a most rare and valuable find that is.”
“That it is!” agreed Cameron, thinking of his old football captain, “but one cannot make friends with a—”
“It is an ugly word, I know,” said Raven. “But, after all, what is a bunch of furs more or less to those Indians?”
“Furs?” exclaimed Cameron in horror. “What are the lives of these men?”