IT was not until the morning of the third day following their arrival in Independence that the members of the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company fell in at the rear of the wagon train that since midnight had been moving in one unbroken line out from the town and its environs.

Day was just breaking when their three wagons, drawn by stout mules, wheeled briskly into place, and as the sun came up and they saw the train stretching out ahead of them, they felt afresh the inspiration of their common hope in this peaceful conquest of fortune. A wave of joyous exultation seemed to sweep along the line; whips cracked, the mounted men galloped to and fro; while out of the uncertain light beyond, as the sun crept up above the horizon, the white lurching tops of the great wagons burst into view, one by one; but growing always smaller until finally they became mere white specks, dropping back in the track of the receding mist.

For the first two hundred miles west from the Missouri the country presented vast reaches of freshest green, gently rolling and intersected at intervals by streams, along whose banks grew scattered elms and cottonwoods. Hidden away in the fertile bottoms they came upon farms or ranches, each with its patch of cultivated land; but as they advanced these became less and less frequent; the uniform view was now one wide, rolling plain, with a distant fringe of timber marking the water-courses.

Then the waves of land ceased, the soil seemed to lose its fertility; and a dead level spread before the unresisting eye. They were entering upon the region of the Platte River and the plains proper. Long ere this the slow-moving oxen had fallen to the rear of the line of white-topped wagons; the mules had outstripped them as they, in their turn, were outstripped by the mounted men. But a greater change was making itself manifest throughout the caravan. The enthusiasm of the gold-seekers was waning in the face of unlooked for hardship and suffering. The cholera had caught them as they left the Missouri, and their line of march was dotted with newly-made graves.

Then, even as Basil Landray had foretold, the faint-hearted sickened of their enterprise, and with the stricken ones who had lost friends or relatives, turned back. The fur trader, giving way to boistrous merriment, showed an inclination to chaff these as they passed; but Stephen sternly bade him keep silent.

He was finding Basil a sore trial, yet the fur trader retained a measure of his faith and confidence, for he displayed a tireless energy in the face of every difficulty. If their mules or horses strayed over night, it was usually Basil who found them in the morning; if there was a stream to be crossed, it was Basil who located the ford; if they needed game, Basil was almost certain to bring it into camp; these were real and tangible benefits which could not be overlooked.

Stephen and Bushrod discussed him privately; at first with a palpable bias in his favour, magnifying each redeeming trait; but gradually their feeling of exasperation toward him was wholly in the ascendent.

“He's positively servile to us,” complained Bushrod. “That's what I can't stand. If he treated us as he treats Rogers, for instance, I don't know but what I'd like him a great deal better; at least I'd have a sufficient excuse to kick him out of camp.”

“Don't you think we've allowed him to wear on us?” said Stephen. “After all, I don't know that we have any right to expect him to be different from what he is; and he certainly is the most useful member of the company; we must admit that.”

“Yes, he's handy with the stock,” said Bushrod grudgingly.

Early in June they reached Fort Laramie, where they camped with the intention of giving their teams a rest of several days. At the Fort, which had been one of the many posts of the American Fur Company, and which the government had only recently acquired by purchase, they found a detachment of Mounted Rifles, while the employees of the Company were still in camp on the river. Among these latter Basil found a number of former associates, and for a night and a day they saw nothing of him; but on the second evening he suddenly strode into camp, and flung himself down in the midst of the little group about the fire.

“I know what I reckon there's many a one would give a good deal to know,” he said jubilantly. “Steve, how'd you fancy shortening up the trail into Salt Lake? I been talking with one of the company's men who knows all the country hereabouts, and he's marked a trail for me.”

“I allowed you knew this here country yourself,” said Rogers sarcastically. “The whole of it, too.”

“I know the trail we been following, for it's the same I took when I helped fetch Brigham Young across the plains after he was run out of Illinois.”

“Which, I reckon, was a damn good job,” said Rogers.

“Which, I reckon, it was nothing of the sort,” retorted Basil quickly.

“What about the new route?” Stephen asked.

“Oh, aye. Well, coming with Brigham Young we followed the Platte clear around until we came to the head of the Sweet Water, then we struck across to the Big Sandy, and on down to Jim Bridger's trading post, pretty nearly south. But see, now—” he took up a bit of charred stick, and rising, turned to one of the wagons whose canvas side showed clearly in the light of the camp-fire. “Now, here's Fort Laramie—Fort John it was in the old days—and off here's Fort Bridger, and way round here runs the north fork of the Platte, and here the Sweet Water lets in.” He sketched rapidly, and soon the canvas was covered with a rude outline map. “Bear in mind that's the emigrant road, as they call it; now we can strike south from here and follow the Chugwater up toward its source; it runs hereaways for a matter of a hundred miles, with this range of hills to the westward of it; just here the hills break away, and the trail turns west; three day's march will bring us to the Laramie—which lets in here—eight days more will bring us off here to Bridger's Pass; and from there on, the trail is almost due west to the head waters of the Weber.”

“And we won't go near Fort Bridger at all?”

“Certain we shan't; that's north of us. When we reach the Weber we'll follow it into the valley; and if we need anything there, I reckon I'll have little enough trouble in getting what's wanted; they won't have forgotten me, or if they have, I'll jog their memories for them. What do you say?”

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.”

“Why, you—” Basil began, his beard quivering; but Stephen put out his hand and rested it heavily on his shoulder.

“Go on, Basil,” he said quietly. “How about grass and water?”

“There's enough of both,” he answered moodily, with eyes still fixed on Rogers.

“But is the road possible for wagons?”

The fur trader grinned arrogantly. “It ain't a road, it's just something between a scent and a trail,” he turned to his map again. “We'll strike water here, and here, and all along here, and where there's water there's grass. You'll admit, Mr. Rogers, the emigrant road is a pretty round about way to Salt Lake, if there's anything nearer.”

“I'm not disputing the distances,” said Rogers reluctantly, for he felt that the leadership of the company was passing from him. “But I don't like the risks of getting caught up with by the Indians.”

“We'll think about it over night,” said Stephen. “We shan't leave here until day after to-morrow, and, in the meantime, I'd like to see your friend.”

“All right,” said Basil, “That's fair enough. I'll fetch him round in the morning and you can talk with him.”

The result of this was, that when the Landrays left Fort Laramie they turned to the south instead of to the west, and followed down the Chugwater.

“It's a mistake,” Rogers said sadly to Walsh. “It's too much of a risk to run to save a few days. It's a big mistake.”

Even Basil seemed to recognize that a caution greater than they had yet shown was now necessary; for he instructed his companions not, on any account, to leave the close proximity of the wagons, while their mules were no longer turned loose at night to graze, but were tied to the wagons instead, and grass cut for them.

At his request Stephen had bought a horse for him before leaving Fort Laramie, and he usually rode in advance of the company, alert and vigilant; sometimes Stephen or Bushrod rode with him on the saddle horses they had brought from the Missouri. Occasionally they encountered small roving bands of Indians, to whom Basil made protestations of friendship and trifling gifts, but he refused to allow them to enter the camp on any pretext.

Rogers, who was not beyond a certain fairness, admitted that the fur trader's presence was of supreme value, and he surprised the others by the unquestioning obedience he yielded him in all matters that bore upon their safety. His condition had steadily improved since leaving Missouri, he now insisted upon doing his share of guard duty, from which he had formerly been exempt, and Basil declared him the most trustworthy member of the party.

“I don't have to stir about when it's his watch,” he told Bushrod. “He don't go to sleep like Walsh and Bingham, who have to be kicked awake every now and then, and he don't take the flapping of the wagon canvases for Indians like Dunlevy does. I reckon he's been a man in his day.”

But beyond the Chugwater an incident occurred which effectually destroyed the apparent good feeling that had prevailed since they left Fort Laramie. They had camped for the night at the head of a small stream, and not far from a sparse growth of cottonwoods, whither Basil had gone with Rogers and Dunlevy to bring in a supply of firewood. Benny, near the wagons which had been drawn together in the form of a triangle, had already started a fire of dry twigs against the return of the choppers. Not far off the others of the party with their hunting-knives were busy cutting grass for the mules and horses.

Suddenly, coming from the cottonwoods, Stephen caught the sound of angry voices. First it was Rogers's voice, high pitched and bitter with the ready rancour of ill-health; a pause succeeded, and then Basil seemed to answer him, but in a more moderate tone. Stephen, suspending his work, glanced at Bushrod in mute inquiry, and at that moment Dunlevy stepped out of the wood.

“Landray!” he called loudly. “You and your brother had better come here.”

The two men dropped their knives, and strode toward him in haste.

“Basil must let Rogers alone,” said Bushrod. “Can't he see the man's sick and to be pitied?”

They had entered the woods, and now they came out upon its furthest margin and upon a surprising group. Rogers, pale and shaking with rage, Basil very red in the face, and three figures on horseback. One of these was a white man, a tall fellow in a ragged uniform, which they recognized as that of the Mounted Rifles; his two companions were wrapped in gaudy blankets, their long rifles resting across the horns of their saddles. Stephen and Bushrod instantly divined that they were half-breeds, while the likeness they bore each other was sufficiently marked to indicate that they were brothers. Their glance was fixed on the fur trader, but the stoical composure they maintained told nothing of what was passing in their minds. The white man, too, was preserving a strictly impartial silence.

Rogers was saying: “I got as much to say about this as any one.”

Basil lowered at him with sour hatred. “You? Who the hell are you? You ain't got a dollar in the outfit!”

“I got what counts for money,” answered Rogers, and shook his fist in Basil's face.

“What's the matter, Basil?” demanded the Landrays in a breath.

The fur trader smiled rather sheepishly. “It's this fool, Rogers,” he began sullenly.

“Oh, go to hell!” interrupted Rogers. He pointed to the three silent figures on horseback and cried fiercely: “This half-breed outfit's his!”

“Easy!” said the uniformed stranger, with a light, good-natured laugh. “I'm no half-breed, and I'm just mighty glad to see you white folks!”

“And who are you?” demanded Stephen.

“It's too bad, Cap, but I came off in such a hurry I clean left my kyards behind, but if you'll take my word for it, Raymond's my name.” He leaned slightly toward Stephen as he spoke, with an air of winning candour. “I'm real put out that yonder party's so upset.” He spoke with grave concern. “Yes, sir, real put out.”

“But who are you? And what are you doing here?”

“Raymond's my name, Cap,” repeated the stranger affably. “Like I should spell it for you?”

“Where's his rifle, why ain't he armed, and how does it come he knows your cousin?” cried Rogers.

“Party's eyesight ain't a failing him yet,” murmured the stranger in a tone of caressing confidence to Stephen. “Well,” he added, “since you seem to object to us, me and my friends here'll just cut loose.”

“No you don't, Raymond!” cried Basil angrily.

“See you in Salt Lake,” said Raymond, gathering up his reins. “Enquire for me.”

“I'll see you all the way there, too,” retorted Basil with an oath. He spoke sharply to the half-breeds, who at once closed up, one on each side of Raymond. The latter dropped back in his saddle, relaxing his hold on the bridle rein. Stephen regarded him in silence for a moment.

“Didn't I see you at Fort Laramie?” he asked.

The stranger, still smiling, nodded, and raising his hand to the corner of his mouth spat decorously back of it.

“In the colonel's quarters, was it not?” said Stephen sternly.

“The blamed old tarrapin was snapping away at me right lively;” he was still smiling pleasantly. He gestured slightly with his hand. “Out here, me and him would have had some sort of a falling out I reckon, but back yonder I had to swallow what he said, though his words were choky enough. Them army men's real candid.”

“I believe you had attempted to desert,” said Stephen, with illy-concealed disgust.

“Well, you might call it an attempt. I reckon the colonel counts it more then that. I held the lead for more than a hundred miles, and I reckon I'd be holding it yet only my hoss went lame. It was the best hoss the colonel owned, too.” His smile never lost a certain amiability; it seemed to spring from the unperverted innocence of his nature.

“How did you get here?” demanded Stephen.

“Ask him. He done it,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of Basil. Stephen turned to the fur trader.

“What have you to say about this?” he asked gravely.

“He's all right. I'll vouch for him and the half-breeds,” he said.

“That isn't what I want to know. I want to know how he happens to be here,” insisted Stephen.

“I fixed that with the half-breeds,” and Basil laughed.

“You mean you got them to break jail for him?”

“What the devil difference does it make?”

“The man's a deserter, and the part you have played in releasing him—”

“What odds does it make to you?” retorted Basil. Then he moderated his tone. “Oh, come now, Steve, what's the use of your sweating about this? Louis and Baptiste here will help with the stock; Raymond's all right, too. They're three mighty good men to have about.”

But now Rogers broke in with objections. “It's right enough for the rest of you. But my wife was killed by the Indians. These are half-breeds, but I got no more use for half-breeds than whole breeds. They're all one to me.”

“Yes,” said Basil roughly, “you'd have used your rifle on Louis there. Lucky for you I saw you getting ready to shoot.”

“I may have a chance to use it on him yet,” answered Rogers, and he directed a volley of abuse at the fur trader. The latter flushed hotly.

“Come aside, you two,” said Stephen, nodding to his brother and the fur trader. “Now,” he said, when they were out of ear shot of the others, “am I to understand, Basil, that you induced those halfbreeds to liberate that man?”

“You've got the idea exactly. See here, Steve, Raymond's a friend of mine; his father's one of the big men in Salt Lake. Raymond and the old man never got along any too well, and a while back Raymond joined the army. He knew that would make the old man hop and swear, but he found he'd rather overdone the business, and, naturally, he tried to cut loose from the whole thing. He deserted, and was fetched back; that's when you saw him. I heard he was in the guard-house and managed to see him; and he offered me five hundred dollars if I'd help him out and get him into the valley where all the soldiers in the United States can't touch him. As he ain't any money, and as he's pretty slippery, I just had the two half-breeds bring him along so I'd have him where I could keep my hands on him. They're to get half the money, you see.”

Stephen had regarded the fur trader in blank astonishment while he explained the part he had had in the deserter's release. Now he turned to Bushrod, who burst out laughing.

“This is a unique adventure for two law-abiding citizens.”

“What would you do?” asked Stephen.

“Do?” cried Bushrod. “Send the miserable rascal back, with our compliments to his colonel.”

“Try it!” said Basil, sullenly.

“Well, and what if we do try it?” said Bushrod, flushing angrily at the other's tone and manner.

“Try it!” repeated Basil doggedly.

But Stephen shook his head slowly. “We're two hundred miles from Fort Laramie,” he said.

“You can keep on. I'll take him back myself, and join you in Salt Lake,” said Bushrod.

“No, if one goes back, all must go back.”

“Well, then, none will go, Steve, you know that.”

“But what about the two half-breeds and the deserter?” asked Stephen, with a troubled frown.

“I expect they'll accompany us into Salt Lake,” said Bushrod, with a shrewd smile. Then he turned on his cousin.

“We'll dispense with you when we reach Salt Lake, do you hear?”

That night the two Indians and the deserter hobbled their horses and went into camp on the edge of the cottonwoods, and within a stone's throw of the wagons.