“But the dead men?” asked Ephriam.
“Well, what had been done to them was a plenty; but I made up my mind that in some sort it was a white man's job,” responded the Missourian, staring fixedly at him. The lids of Raymond's eyes drooped for an instant.
“A white man's job?” he cried. “White men?” he repeated dully; he seemed stunned by the idea.
“Which it might have been redskins,” said Jim, with his mouth full. “Elder, this cooking hits me hard.”
“Does the boy know who he is, and where he comes from?” asked Ephriam.
“He knows little that's going to help in finding his folks; but I don't allow he's got any. He's a pretty complete orphan.”
“Who are you, and where do you come from, child?” asked the old man gently, and he placed his hand on Benny's head, his long fingers straying among his sunburned curls.
“My name's Benny Rogers.” He spoke with a shrill little voice. “And where do you come from, Benny?”
“From Benson,” answered the child.
Ephriam seemed to consider, then he looked at the Missourian, who shook his head.