There ensued an ominous silence. A tortured sickly smile seemed to snatch at the corners of the deserter's mouth, but it was past his power to fix it there; it left him loose-lipped, gaping helplessly down the muzzle of Rogers's long rifle. He was struggling with a terrible fear that the Californian might make some sudden and deadly use of his weapon. He remembered how they had found the half-breed with the single round hole in his hunting-shirt attesting to the excellence of his slayer's markmanship.
“Why don't you shoot?” he cried at last in agony.
“Hold your jaw!” said Rogers in a savage whisper.
“If you're going to shoot, why don't you?” the deserter demanded with hoarse, dry-throated rage.
“I reckon that's something I'll take my time to,” said Rogers calmly. “Maybe I'll shoot and maybe I won't. I'm thinking about it—hard. Fall back a step, I got no hankering for your company. There, that'll do, and if you so much as raise your voice again—” he did not finish the sentence, but tapped the stock of his rifle with sinister significance. There was another pause and then Rogers said more mildly, “I reckon you can tell me how you happen to be here.”
Raymond took grace of his altered tone; with a final desperate twitching of the lips the smile fixed itself at the corners of his mouth. “You pretty nearly took my breath away,” he faltered.
“You're right there, I did,” said Rogers with sudden ferocity.
Raymond smiled vaguely. To the very marrow of his bones he feared this gaunt captor of his.
“Quick now,” said Rogers sternly, “what are you doing here?”
“Well, you see I've give Basil the slip—”