“Yes, but don't be hasty. I'll attend to Basil.”
“Say, Mr. Landray, if you'll give me a gun I'll make the shot for you.” said the deserter officiously. He was not regarded, but he continued to loudly lament that he was unarmed.
Rogers had scarcely disappeared in one of the wagons when Basil and Baptiste galloped into camp; they flung themselves from their horses and confronted the little group about Stephen.
“Where is he?” Basil shouted, seizing the latter by the arm. “Where's Rogers? You're no kin to me unless you give him up to us.”
“Basil,” said Stephen quietly, falling back a step and freeing himself from the other's clutch, “it was the result of a quarrel, the fight was a fair one.”
“It's a lie—it was murder!” the fur trader cried hoarsely. “Where is he?” and he glared about him.
“Where you shan't touch him.”
“Shan't?” he raged, his black beard bristling.
“No.”
“Where've you hidden him?”