“If he's done wrong he shall be punished; but not by you, not by us; the law—”
“Damn the law! There's only one law for the plains.”
“We'll hand him over to the commandant of the first military post.”
Rogers, who heard every word that was said where he lay in the bed of one of the wagons, with a barricade of boxes about him, smiled grimly at this.
“No they won't, son,” he whispered to the boy. “You and me will see California for all of them.”
He reached up over his barricade, and with his hunting-knife cut a slit in the wagon's canvas cover. The slit was just large enough to accommodate the muzzle of his rifle.
But now Basil withdrew to his own camp, taking with him the halfbreed and the deserter. The latter went with him reluctantly enough, for he knew the fur trader was in no mood to tamper with.
The five men about the wagons waited, never relaxing their vigilance. They expected something would be done or attempted, they scarcely knew what. They could hear nothing of what passed between Basil and his two companions, but they saw that he was talking earnestly with Raymond. Twice the deserter turned and looked toward them, finally he appeared to give a satisfactory answer to what Basil had been saying, and the conference came to an end; they heard the echo of his light laugh. He turned from Basil and the half-breed and approached Stephen, whom he seemed to regard with a quickened interest, but the friendly smile never left his selfish, good-natured face.
“Well, good-bye,” he said, and extended his hand. “I reckon I'll have to go with him yonder.”
“Are you willing to go with him?” Stephen asked.