THEY saw no more of Basil Landray, Baptiste, and the too-smiling Raymond, which caused them some surprise at first; for the fur trader's sinister threat at parting had not sounded like an empty menace; yet when a week elapsed they decided that he had spoken rather for the half-breed than to them.

“What can they do?” said Bushrod contemptuously. “I've been looking for them to take pot shots at some of us; but after all that would be a risky business.”

“I wish,” said Stephen, “that we might find another way into Salt Lake; I don't like this thing of keeping on after them.”

“No,” said Rogers slowly, as though he were himself reluctantly abandoning some such idea. “No, our best chance is to keep on as we are going until we strike the head waters of the Weber. But look here, Mr. Landray, I didn't count on seeing the last of them so soon. Do you reckon they've hatched some plan to hold us up there in the valley?”

“How could they?” Stephen demanded. “You mean you think they may try to hold us for the murder,” he added.

“Mr. Landry, it wa'n'. no murder,” said Rogers, deeply offended at his unfortunate choice of words. “I wouldn't ask to die no fairer than he done.”

“I didn't mean to say that, Rogers,” said Stephen hastily.

“No, but you think of it as that,” retorted Rogers bitterly. “There's no use of our quarrelling about it, Rogers,” said Stephen. “You settled with him in your own fashion.”

“I never knowed of a case,” said Rogers moodily, “but I've heard of a white man being tried for killing a redskin; and the one I shot was a half-breed, and so some sort white just as he was some sort red.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” said Stephen.

“Well,” observed Rogers, “three or four days now will bring us into the valley. Mr. Landray, that's one redskin I'm mighty sorry I put out of business; if I'd been at the same pains to stave off the trouble I was to fetch it to a head, or if I'd sort of nursed it along until we got to the other side of this two-wife country, it might have saved us a heap of bother.”

Early the following morning Rogers was roused by Stephen, and as he came to consciousness he felt Stephen's hand on his shoulder.

“Turn out, Rogers,” said Landray. “One of the mules has broken its rope and strayed.”

The Californian crawled sleepily from among his blankets.

“What do you say—the mules—”

“The piebald's slipped her picket rope.”

“Dam her pepper and salt hide anyhow!” said Rogers, now wide awake. “I bet I rope her to-night so she don't get loose.”

“She can't have gone far for she was here when Bingham relieved me three hours after midnight.”

It was then just dawn.

“Where are the others?” asked Rogers, glancing about.

“They have gone down into the valley; suppose you take the back track up the pass while I get breakfast. Will you ride?”

“No, it ain't likely she's strayed far.”

He went back down the pass narrowly scanning the ground for the trail of the straying animal. A walk of a mile brought him to a point where a small canyon led off from the pass; a high separating wedge-shaped ridge lay between the two defiles, and it occurred to him that if he climbed to the summit of this ridge he would command a view of the pass proper as well as of the smaller canyon. He made the ascent with some difficulty and gaining the top of the ridge carefully scanned the pass, down which he could look for a mile or more; then he turned and found that he was overlooking a small valley, which but for the canyon would have been completely enclosed by a low range of hills, beyond which but at some distance rose the grey flanks of the mountains.

He did not see the lost mule, but he did see something that caused him an exclamation of surprise. Across the valley, and just rising above the low hill, what looked to be a small blue cloud was ascending lazily in the clear air. It was smoke; smoke from some camp-fire; and the camp-fire probably that of some roving band of Indians.

He went down the ridge a matter of half a mile, and entered a thick growth of service berry, aspin, and willows; this was so dense that he no longer saw the hill opposite and toward which he was bending his steps. He worked his way well into the thicket and had gained the centre of the narrow bottom, when he suddenly became aware that a man or some animal was crashing through the bush ahead of him which not only covered the bottom but clothed the base of the hill as well. Man or beast, the disturber of that solitude was coming forward rapidly and apparently with no attempt at concealment, for there was a continual snapping of branches.

Rogers paused; he could see nothing though the sounds drew nearer each moment. He cautiously forced his way yet deeper into the thicket, his gun cocked and swung forward ready for immediate use. Then suddenly he came out upon an open piece of ground, and found himself looking squarely into the face of the smiling Raymond. But the deserter was not smiling now. With a startled cry he had swung up his rifle and presented its muzzle at Rogers's breast; yet quick as he was, the Californian had been equally prompt, his long rifle was levelled, too, and his forefinger rested lightly on the trigger. There was this difference, however, the hammer of the deserter's gun still covered the cap. It forever settled a most important question.

“Drop it!” said Rogers quietly between his teeth; and Raymond, whose face was grey and drawn, and whose eyes never left the Californian's eyes, instantly opened his hands and the gun dropped at his feet. By a quick movement Rogers kicked it to one side. There was a long moment while the two men, breathing hard, glared at each other. It was the deserter who spoke first.

“Why, Mr. Rogers,” he said in a shaken whisper, “I wa'n'. counting on seeing you.”

“I bet you wa'n'.,” said Rogers briefly, but with grim sarcasm; and moving forward a step he kicked Raymond's rifle yet further into the brush.

There ensued an ominous silence. A tortured sickly smile seemed to snatch at the corners of the deserter's mouth, but it was past his power to fix it there; it left him loose-lipped, gaping helplessly down the muzzle of Rogers's long rifle. He was struggling with a terrible fear that the Californian might make some sudden and deadly use of his weapon. He remembered how they had found the half-breed with the single round hole in his hunting-shirt attesting to the excellence of his slayer's markmanship.

“Why don't you shoot?” he cried at last in agony.

“Hold your jaw!” said Rogers in a savage whisper.

“If you're going to shoot, why don't you?” the deserter demanded with hoarse, dry-throated rage.

“I reckon that's something I'll take my time to,” said Rogers calmly. “Maybe I'll shoot and maybe I won't. I'm thinking about it—hard. Fall back a step, I got no hankering for your company. There, that'll do, and if you so much as raise your voice again—” he did not finish the sentence, but tapped the stock of his rifle with sinister significance. There was another pause and then Rogers said more mildly, “I reckon you can tell me how you happen to be here.”

Raymond took grace of his altered tone; with a final desperate twitching of the lips the smile fixed itself at the corners of his mouth. “You pretty nearly took my breath away,” he faltered.

“You're right there, I did,” said Rogers with sudden ferocity.

Raymond smiled vaguely. To the very marrow of his bones he feared this gaunt captor of his.

“Quick now,” said Rogers sternly, “what are you doing here?”

“Well, you see I've give Basil the slip—”

“That's a lie,” retorted Rogers. “Whose smoke is that off yonder back of you?”

“I reckon you mean my camp-fire.”

“That's another lie. Some one's been throwing on wood, green wood, since we been standing here,” said Rogers with an ugly grin. “Look and see—the smoke'll tell you that as plain as it tells me.”

“You're plumb suspicious, Mr. Rogers, it's my camp; ain't I always been a friend?”

“You ain't friend to no man, unless it be to yourself, that's my idea of you,” said Rogers.

“It's my camp-fire I tell you—”

“Yes, and Basil's there, and the half-breed's there,” he took his eyes off Raymond's face, and for the first time noticed that he had exchanged his ragged uniform for an excellent suit of grey homespun. “You've crossed the range and been down into the valley. Now what are you doing here on the back track when you were all so keen for trying your luck in California?”

“Well,” said the deserter with a quick shift of ground, “maybe Basil is there, and maybe the half-breed is there; what does it signify?”

“Why are you following us?”

But at this Raymond shook his head vehemently. “Following you—and why'd we be following you? I'll tell you the truth, fact is, sometimes it gravels me to tell the truth; but with a friend—we're taking a party of Saints back to the Missouri. There was money in the job, and darn California anyhow; it's a long way off, and they say in the valley the bottom's dropped clean out of this here gold business. It's all rank foolishness, they are beginning to come back, and the Saints are feeding them and helping them on toward the States; we mighty soon got shut of that notion when we'd seen and talked with a few of them that'd crossed to the Coast; and when Young offered to hire us to take a score of his missionaries to the Missouri we jumped at the chance.”

“You daren't go near Fort Laramie,” said Rogers, but his theories as to what had brought Raymond there had been rather shaken by the excellent account he was now giving of himself.

“I wa'n'. aware I said I was going near the fort. No, sir, we're going out the way we come in. We allow to hit the trail a hundred miles the other side of old Laramie.”

Rogers looked at him doubtfully, yet he was almost inclined to believe that it was as he said, that the first rush of emigration might have encountered a few discouraged ones who had gone into California the preceding fall, and who having been unfortunate were making the best of their way back to the States—this might even have resulted in a stampede among the emigrants. He recalled how the fear of the cholera had turned back thousands before a quarter of their journey had been completed.

With his shifty eyes narrowed to a slit, the deserter watched the Californian. He could see something of what was passing in his mind and he could guess the rest; yet when he spoke again he said, “I reckon you don't take any great stock in what I'm telling you; come up to the top of yonder ridge and you can see our camp, and that it's exactly as I say.”

This was the very thing Rogers had resolved on doing.

“I'm going with you all right, but look here, if you so much as make a sign or a sound, to let 'em know we're close at hand, I'm going to blow the top of your head off. Here, walk before me, and heed every word I say. If I find you're telling me the truth about its being a party of Mormon missionaries, I'll bring you back here and turn you loose. We'll leave your gun here.”

“That's fair enough,” said Raymond genially. “Well I certainly am proud to see you, though I took you for a redskin first off; lucky you spoke—”

“I allow it was a sight luckier for me I got you covered first,” said Rogers sourly. “Go ahead now, and mind you, no noise.”

It was evident, however, that the deserter felt he had quite as much at stake as Rogers himself, for he advanced cautiously through the thicket that clothed the base of the hill. Rogers followed him with his rifle held ready for instant use, but no thought was further from Raymond's mind than betrayal. At first he had felt the desperate need of some explanation, that would account for his presence there; and the story he had finally told had seemed to him to cover the case and to leave no reasonable room for doubt in Rogers's mind.

As they neared the top of the ridge he threw himself flat on his stomach and wormed his way up toward its broken crest, and Rogers keeping close at his heels followed his example. He gained the crest, and peering about the base of a stunted pine, found that he was looking down into a snug pocket of the hills, and so close to the camp that he might have tossed his cap into it, though it lay far below him. He counted eighteen or twenty picketed horses; a number of men were moving about, and a glance told him they were white men. He looked long and earnestly, and then turned to Raymond with a frankly puzzled expression. The deserter was smiling and triumphant.

“Want I should take you into camp?” he asked in an eager whisper, but Rogers shook his head; he was not convinced, yet why and what he doubted was more than he could have told.

“We'll go back,” he said at last. “Go first;” and they descended the ridge in silence. Rogers was vainly seeking to fit some explanations to the mystery, beyond Raymond's words. When they reached the scene of their original encounter, he paused for an instant.

“I reckon you'll have to go on with me for a little spell before I turn you loose,” he said. “No, you can come back here and get your gun when I'm through with you,” and he laughed shortly.

“Oh, all right,” said Raymond cheerfully. “It's just as you say.”

“You bet it's as I say,” and he motioned the deserter to precede him again.

They crossed the ridge that lay between them and the pass.

“I reckon this'll do,” said Rogers. “I sha'n'. want you to go any further. Look here, the Landrays treated you all right.”

“They did indeed,” said Raymond gratefully.

“Well, what are those men yonder in camp for?”

“I just got through telling you that, Mr. Rogers,” responded Raymond with an injured air. “The outfit's bound for the States. Old Brigham reckons you godless cusses back East need some converting; that's what he's up to, and I'm helping rush 'em to the river.”

“I'm pretty certain you're lying whatever you say,” observed Rogers.

“Well, sir, I've fooled people telling them the truth,” retorted Raymond. “But that was their own fault.”

“I reckon maybe that's so,” said Rogers.

“This is a mighty one-sided conversation anyway you look at it,” said the deserter pleasantly, and smiling without offence. “No, sir, I'm telling you God Almighty's truth, they are Mormon missionaries going back to the States.”

“Well, whatever they are, I sha'n'. want you any more; you can travel back to 'em as fast as you like; but look here, you see that none of them don't stray in the direction I'm going.” And the Californian moved off up the pass.

“Good luck, Mr. Rogers!” the deserter called after him, and then he began leisurely to climb the ridge.

When Rogers reached the camp he saw that the mule had been found and that the teams were made up and ready to start.

“What's kept you so long?” asked Stephen.

“I was following what I took to be old piebald's trail,” answered Rogers.

At first he had been undecided as to whether or not he should tell the others of his encounter with Raymond; but he had finally determined to say nothing of this meeting. Silent and preoccupied he took his place in one of the wagons, seeking some excuse for Raymond's presence so close at hand, beyond that which the deserter had himself given.

Their trail first led across a narrow valley, and then they entered the pass again, which with each slow mile mounted to a higher altitude; but by the middle of the morning it seemed to have reached its greatest elevation, for on beyond them it wound down and down, opening at last into a wide level valley lying in a vast amphitheatre of hills and mountains.

“Mr. Landray, I don't know but I'd like to ride your horse for a spell,” said Rogers.

“You'll find it much cooler in the wagon,” said Stephen.

“It is hot,” agreed the Californian, wiping the sweat from his face.

Nevertheless he swung himself into the saddle, and fell in at the rear of the wagons; and then he increased the distance that separated him from the train, from a few yards to almost half a mile, keeping his horse at the slowest walk. Once or twice in the last hour before their brief noon halt, he thought he heard the distant clatter of hoofs in the pass back of him, but he dismissed this as a mere nervous fancy. A little after midday they entered the valley. For a matter of two miles they toiled forward over a perfectly level plain, barren and bare of all useful vegetation.

Stephen who was in the first wagon reined in his mules to say, “We'll let our teams have a few minutes rest.”

“I'd push ahead, Mr. Landray; I wouldn't waste no time here,” said Rogers anxiously, as he rode up.

“In just a moment, Rogers—hullo! what's that?”

He was looking toward the point where they had entered the valley. Rogers turned quickly and saw that a number of small black objects were emerging from the pass; distant as they were, all knew they were mounted men.

“What do you make them out to be?” Stephen asked.

“I reckon I don't know and I reckon I don't care. Do you see that bit of a hill ahead of us? There's water and grass somewhere near there; push on for that.”

He fell in at the rear of the last wagon, and the look of indifference his face had worn a moment before vanished the instant he was alone. He rode in silence for perhaps five minutes with his face turned toward the black dots. He never once took his eyes from them.

“Faster!” he called. “Push the mules!”

Now the black objects had become individual, separate; they were men who rode in open order, and as they rode they spread out in a half-circle that swept momentarily nearer the train. Presently he caught the hoof beats of the swiftly galloping horses, now loud, now scarcely audible in the sultry stillness; and then it became a steady beat like the rattle of hail on frozen ground; the beat and throb of his own pulse took up and magnified the rhythm until his temples ached with the sound.

“Faster!” he called again. “Faster yet! Give them the rawhide!”

But his companions knew now why he urged greater speed; and the long lashes of their whips fell again and again on the backs of the straining mules.

“We must make that hill—don't let them cut us off from it!” cried Rogers, as he reined in his horse and faced about; he dropped the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and sent a bullet in the direction of their pursuers.

As the first shot vibrated sharply across the plains the horsemen were seen to draw rein, but this was only for a brief instant, and then the race for the hill was begun afresh, and with renewed energy. The huge wagons lurched to and fro, tossed like ships in a seaway, the mules at a gallop; while Rogers, a spectral figure, his long hair flying in the wind, hung in the rear of the train, or rode back and forth menacing their pursuers.

“Keep off!” he called, and sent a second messenger in the direction of the horsemen; this at closer range than the first seemed to find a mark, for one was seen to sway in his saddle, and there was a momentary pause in their onward rush as his companions gathered about the wounded man.

“I can shoot yet!” said Rogers with grim joy, He loaded his rifle again with a deliberation and care no peril could shake, then he felt his horse's forefeet strike rising ground, and glanced about; he had reached the base of the hill, he turned again in the saddle, fired, and without waiting to see the effect of his shot, drove his spurs into his horse's flank and fled forward after the wagons.