“A fellow who thought he could suppress the news of the discovery of gold in California,” said Gibbs.
“He had a son; had he not?”
Gibbs nodded.
“A little chap of eight or ten—you recollect him well enough, Jake—he was the apple of Rogers's eye.”
“Yes, I remember him,” said the lawyer absently. He was hardly hearing what was said. Words, apparently chance words, were taking him swiftly back to the past. He felt in his face the rain and sleet of that March morning long past, when he had gone to Tucker's Red Brick Tavern to say good-bye to the Landrays. He saw the canvas-covered wagons looming large in the darkness, the one dim light in the bar, and poor old Tucker, half-crazed with drink and grief. He glanced at Gibbs and wondered if he recalled that day; but the general had not been engulfed by any such rush of sentiment. His conscience was singularly inactive: not a line of his bad old face showed emotion. He was eating and drinking with unabated relish; perhaps it had not occurred to him that out of his part in that day's doings a tragedy had come.
“Yes, I remember the child,” repeated the lawyer.
“Well,” said Wade, “Reddy's nearest neighbour is this man Rogers's son.”
“Impossible!” cried Benson.
“Why impossible, Mr. Benson?” said Wade.
“Because the boy was killed along with the others, Ben.”