CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THEY saw no more of Basil Landray, Baptiste, and the too-smiling Raymond, which caused them some surprise at first; for the fur trader's sinister threat at parting had not sounded like an empty menace; yet when a week elapsed they decided that he had spoken rather for the half-breed than to them.
“What can they do?” said Bushrod contemptuously. “I've been looking for them to take pot shots at some of us; but after all that would be a risky business.”
“I wish,” said Stephen, “that we might find another way into Salt Lake; I don't like this thing of keeping on after them.”
“No,” said Rogers slowly, as though he were himself reluctantly abandoning some such idea. “No, our best chance is to keep on as we are going until we strike the head waters of the Weber. But look here, Mr. Landray, I didn't count on seeing the last of them so soon. Do you reckon they've hatched some plan to hold us up there in the valley?”
“How could they?” Stephen demanded. “You mean you think they may try to hold us for the murder,” he added.
“Mr. Landry, it wa'n'. no murder,” said Rogers, deeply offended at his unfortunate choice of words. “I wouldn't ask to die no fairer than he done.”
“I didn't mean to say that, Rogers,” said Stephen hastily.
“No, but you think of it as that,” retorted Rogers bitterly. “There's no use of our quarrelling about it, Rogers,” said Stephen. “You settled with him in your own fashion.”
“I never knowed of a case,” said Rogers moodily, “but I've heard of a white man being tried for killing a redskin; and the one I shot was a half-breed, and so some sort white just as he was some sort red.”