“I know; but he didn't to-night, and I got scared.”
A horrible doubt flashed through Stephen's mind. “Here,” he said, “you hold my gun, and I'll go and see if he's all right.” And he made his way to the Californian's side, but the latter's regular breathing instantly dispelled his fears. He returned to Benny. “What did you do; did you call him?” he asked.
“Yes, and I put my hand on his face as I always do when I want him to wake up.”
“Oh, well, he's very tired, that's all.”
“Have they gone away, Mr. Landray?” the boy asked.
“Are you afraid, Benny?”
“No”—slowly and uncertainly—“at least I reckon not so very afraid. Are they still there?”
“I expect they are.”
The child was silent. Stephen stood leaning on his rifle looking down at him with a wistful pity in his eyes. He had scarcely noticed him before, he was so silent, so little in the way; and now for the first time he was seeing how small and weak he was. Why had Rogers brought him with them; why had he not left him behind with some woman who would have cared for him? His sudden sense of pity made him bitterly resentful of what he considered the man's ignorant unimaginative devotion, for of course he knew that the boy was all in all to the Californian; but why since he loved him had he brought him out into the wilderness to face hardship and possible death? It was bad enough for men, but this child—he sickened at the thought.
Then he recalled with no little satisfaction that even Basil had shown more than a passing interest in the boy; brutal and hard as he was with every living thing, the child had yet found a way into his surly, grudging regard, and this in spite of the open breach that from the first had existed between Rogers and himself. Remembering this, he could not believe that the fur trader would allow any harm that it was in his power to avert, to come to him. Then he thought again of the packet of papers in his pocket; why not give them to Benny to keep?