Stephen looked at Rogers.
“What do you think?” he asked. “He did this because it had been evident from the first that Rogers viewed the fur trader with no friendly eye, just as it was equally evident that Basil's feelings for the Californian were similarly hostile, each regarding the other as a rival in his own special field.”
“I don't know anything about this new trail,” said Rogers sullenly.
The fur trader grinned and pulled at his black beard. “No? That's odd, too. I allowed you knew the whole blame country, from hearing you talk,” he jeered.
Rogers ignored this, and addressed himself to Stephen.
“You'd better bear in mind that there'll be plenty of Indians, and instead of fifty or a hundred wagons which they daren't fool with, there'll be just three.”
“I don't need to tell Mr. Rogers that these here Indians of his will be mostly armed with bows and arrows,” said Basil scornfully, but he drew his bushy brows together and scowled at the Californian.
“No, and you don't need to Mister me,” retorted Rogers.
“Well, among friends—”
“And you don't need to make any mistake about that either,” cried Rogers quickly. “I ain't always been able to choose my company, but it's different with my friends.”