But no one answered him.
“You won't give him up, eh? Well, look out,” and he shook his fist at them. “Look out, for I'll even this before I'm done with you.”
They heard his threat in silence, then seeing he was not to be answered, he wheeled about, and, followed by the half-breed and Raymond, crossed the ridge at a gallop. They stopped at the water-hole just long enough to lash the dead man to his saddle.
But Raymond, the deserter, rode away rejoicing in the possession of Louis's rifle which Basil had given him. When they had disappeared from sight, Stephen said to Bingham and Dunlevy: “Go down and look up the stock; if you find it's strayed from the water-hole, come back and we'll all turn out after it.”
Then, followed by Bushrod, he went to the wagons and called to Rogers. “They've gone. You've nothing to fear,” he said. The Californian crawled stiffly from his place of concealment. His friends were silent as he emerged from the wagon, against which he leaned for support.
“God knows it was a fair fight, Landray,” he said tremulously, for now, that the sustaining excitement was past, he was like one shaken with the ague. His face was drawn and ghastly, and his dark eyes burnt with an unearthly light. “He'd a done for me if I hadn't shot him. It was him or me; but it was mighty fair of you to stand by me.”
“We've stood by you, but I'm not satisfied, Rogers,” said Stephen moodily. “It's true he was an Indian, and it may be true, as you say, that you did the shooting in self-defence; I hope it was; but you've had bad blood for them from the start.”
“Bad blood! Yes, curse them—and curse me! for I've lived and camped with them for days and nights,” cried Rogers fiercely, glaring at Stephen. “If I'd been the man I was once I'd a fetched it to an issue long ago. See—” he held out a shaking hand, “You might think from that, he was the first. The heart's gone out of me with this cough that's tearing me asunder. It was the Indians killed my wife; I reckon if you stood in my place now you'd wonder why the hell we was arguing whether I shot yonder varment in fair fight or not: She'd gone to the corral—I'm telling you how my wife died—when I heard her cry out, and I ran to the ranch door. It wa'n'. two hundred yards to the coral, but it might as well been miles and she'd been no worse off; for it was surrounded; and when she ran shrieking through the bars, trying with all the strength God Almighty had given her, to make the house, they closed in about her and I saw one of them drive his axe into her brain.” The sweat stood in great beads on his brow. “I saw I was too late to help her, and I went back into the house and fastened the door, I still had him to think of—” pointing to the child. There was a long pause. Rogers gulped down something that rose in his throat, and went on: “Well, when the settlers who'd been hot on their trail ever since they broke loose on the settlement, come in and drove them off, and pulled Benny here and me out of the burning ranch house, they laid out ten of the red brutes. I'd let the daylight through.” He threw up his head defiantly. “What the hell do you suppose I care for one greasy half-breed!” and he clutched the stock of his gun with trembling fingers. “For God's sake,” he moaned, “Let's be moving. It was only a half-breed, what the hell's use quarrelling about him. I've sent him where he'll do no more harm.”