“You misunderstand me,” answered Ephriam quietly. “If it becomes known that there is reason to doubt the Indians were solely responsible for the killing of those men, it will make talk; and, supposing the guilty parties are in camp near the city—and many strangers are in camp there—we may have to look far for them when we want them.”
“That sounds a whole lot better,” said the Missourian. “Well, we'll tuck along into town, and we leave the boy with you to send back to the States.”
Ephriam led the way to the log stables. He wanted to see the last of these two men, before he repented of the part he was playing. They seemed simple, kindly fellows, who would have dealt fairly by the boy.
The Missourian wrung his hand with fervour at parting.
“You let us out easy, yet it ain't really fitting we should carry him on to California,” he said.
Ephriam stood by the corral as they rode away.
“They are honest fellows,” he muttered at last, and then he realized that he was staring at a stretch of empty road, they had passed from sight down the trail.
He went slowly back to the house. His daughter met him at the door.
“Why, have they gone?” she said in surprise.
“Yes—”