The president shook hands cordially with Benson, and motioned him to a chair.
“As the result of a curious set of circumstances, I have news of your friends at last, Mr. Benson; but you must prepare to hear the worst,” said he, and he turned to the stranger. “Come here, Raymond, and tell your story,” and Raymond, who had been standing apart, now joined the little group by the president's desk, and dropped into the chair Young indicated.
“How do you do, sir.” He addressed himself to Benson, and his manner suggested a kindly sympathy that was not lost on the lawyer.
“Brother Brigham tells me you're looking for Stephen Landray and his brother? I guess I can tell you as much as any man alive about them, for I was with 'em—”
“They are dead, then?” said Benson abruptly. He was very white of face, and his voice was almost a whisper.
Raymond nodded a single emphatic inclination of the head. He cleared his throat, and went on in his soft, slow speech:
“I was with 'em when the redskins put 'em out of business. It was a snug clean up, and it was only by God Almighty's mercy that I fetched myself off.” He turned back the collar of his shirt as he spoke, and Benson saw an ugly scar. Raymond laid his finger on this. “You can see how near they came to fixing me.” he said.
“But how is it that you were with them?” asked Benson.
“I joined the party this side of Fort Laramie. You see, I was a friend of Basil Landray's. I'd known him a right smart while. I was coming in toward the valley and I knew a cut off round by way of the Chugwater that they was keen to try. That was their mistake. If they'd stuck to the emigrant road, this wouldn't have happened.”
“Yes?” said Benson.