THE deserter squatted on his haunches and spat reflectively at the fire; his mild blue eyes, large and oxlike, gazed into the dancing flames, with an expression of placid content. Stephen and Bushrod lay on their blankets, weary from the day's travel. Walsh was playing cards with the two teamsters. Rogers leaned against the wheel of one of the wagons, with Benny asleep in the shadow at his side.

The deserter nodded silently to each in turn and they as silently nodded back to him. He glanced from the group he had joined to the group he had just left, and a matter of fifty feet separated the two. The burly half-breeds sat motionless and erect in the circle of light cast by their camp-fire, their blankets drawn about their shoulders. The fur trader was deep in earnest conversation with them and the deserter, noting this, his face took on a curious, puzzled expression; then, with a lingering glance in Basil's direction, he turned to Stephen. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“He seems to find plenty to say when I ain't about. Mr. Landray, white's no name for the way you've treated me. I reckon I'd be mighty lonely if I'd to mess steady with them.” He spoke gratefully in a slow, soft voice; he put up his hands and shielded his face from the campfire's light and heat. “A week or so and I'll be doing my best to get friendly with father; but I reckon fatted calf won't form no part of the first meal I set down to with him,” and a shrewd, sly, smile curled his lips.

Ten days had elapsed since the complete disruption of the party, when Basil had cast his lot wholly with the half-breeds. His intercourse with his cousins was now limited to the fewest possible words. Not so the late member of the Mounted Rifles. Had he been an ordinary ruffian, they would have regretted the evident preference he had displayed from the very first for their society; but clearly he was not an ordinary ruffian. He appeared a frank, simple soul; and even his morality, which was more than doubtful, seemed entirely a matter of accident, and something for which he could not be held responsible. He came and went freely between the two camps; he treated all with the same gentle affection; he overflowed with a graceful considerate charity of deeds; and he was helpful, not alone in deeds, but words of the most winning friendliness accompanied all his acts.

“We can't be far from Green River,” he suggested tentatively.

“Something less than forty miles, I should say,” Stephen answered.

Raymond pondered this in silence but when he spoke again, he had apparently lost all interest concerning their nearness to the river. “I've heard father say when Brigham Young fetched the saints out here, he'd promised 'em a land leaking with milk and honey; the land about Salt Lake looks as if it'll be a right smart while before it does any leaking. The trouble with this blame country is there's too much of it. I reckon it'll take a thousand years to fill her up.” he speculated idly.

“Was your father always a Mormon?” Stephen asked.

“He went into the business about as early as any of 'em, Mr. Landray. He's always had a gift for religion. He's tried 'em all. He was a Methodist to begin with, but I've heard him say he mighty early got discouraged with that as a means of grace; then he took up with the Millerites, had his robes ready and climbed up on the housetop to get his start for the kingdom come. You've heard of the Millerites, I reckon.”

“Oh, yes,” Stephen said; he added, “Religion doesn't seem to have occupied your thoughts to any extent. I should have imagined, with such an example before you—”

“Me? Oh, no; I don't see no reason for worry. I figure it out this way; I always been lucky, and I sort of look for some one to snake me in and say: 'Why, how are you, Raymond? I'm mighty surprised to see you here.'.rdquo;

“They'll hardly say less than that,” observed Stephen drily.

The deserter meditated in silence for a moment, and when he spoke again it was with an air of amiable tolerance.

“Yes, sir, father was so certain sure he'd never have any more use for it, that he gave away as good a farm as ever lay out doors. He wanted to feel that nothing was holding him to earth.”

“Meaning no offence to you, he was a pretty considerable fool to do that,” said Rogers, who had been listening to the conversation, and who now joined in it.

“No, you can't quite say that, for he deeded it to mother; he know'd he'd be pretty bad off if the world didn't bust according to prophecy, and he wanted to keep the property in the family; though I've heard him say he was that sincere he'd made up his mind that just him and a few of his friends was to be saved; he looked for all the rest to get scorched up bad; but he was uncertain about having the date of the bust up just right, and if it went over another season he thought he'd like to skin the farm for one more corn crop. He's always been powerful forehanded in them ways. What was this millennium anyhow, that old Bill Miller had him so stirred up over?”

“I don't know quite the sort of a millennium that your father was expecting,” said Stephen, “but I believe the millennium is supposed to mean a period which is to last a thousand years, when the world will be free of sin and death.”

“No deserting—no horse-stealing,” said Bushrod.

“You got me there!” said Raymond pleasantly. “So that's the millennium; it's a right pretty idea, ain't it? But tedious I should reckon.”

“Is your father satisfied with Mormonism?” asked Stephen.

“Yes, sir, and it's a pretty fair sort of a religion.”

“How about Brigham Young?” said Stephen.

“Oh, they're thick as thieves. Brigham's right smart of a schemer, too,” with gentle approval. “There's no foolishness about him—none whatever.”

“I suppose you are acquainted with Young, too?” said Stephen.

“Me? Oh, yes. I tell you, Mr. Landray, the valley's no healthy place unless you keep on the right side of him. I've heard father say that even after he'd been made elder, he kicked over the traces, and they had to baptise him all over a few times, to give him a fresh start. I reckon they didn't keep him in long enough 'airy time, if I'd been doing the job I'd left him in over night.”

While he talked his glance had been continually straying in the direction of the fur trader. The latter's apparently earnest conversation with his companions had come to an end, and the two halfbreeds had stretched themselves on the ground, but Basil still sat beside the camp-fire, his pipe between his teeth, moody and solitary.

The deserter hitched a little nearer Stephen, and dropped his voice to a low whisper.

“I'd like mighty well to tie up with you gentlemen, and give Basil yonder the slip. It was downright underhand of him to run me and the breeds in on you the way he done; I was real distressed, honest I was. It'd about serve him right if you helped me cut loose; we could wait until we got to the valley, and then if you'd just furnish me with a gun—” He looked wistfully at the row of rifles that leaned against the wagon-bed, each within easy reach of its owner's hand “and if there was any shooting to be done—him, I mean—I'd do it. Of course, his being kin to you, you wouldn't just want to do that yourselves. I'd want to feel though, that you'd take care of the half-breeds until I done for Basil. You never can trust a half-breed anyhow.”

“You're not in earnest, Raymond; you're surely not serious?” cried Stephen, drawing away from him in disgust and horror. The deserter gave him a swift, searching glance, then he laughed easily.

“Well, no, I ain't. I was joking—just joking.”

“It was a poor joke,” said Stephen sternly.

Raymond came slowly to his feet. “Well,” said he, “I'll turn in. You couldn't oblige me with the loan of a rifle, if I made up my mind to strike off for Fort Bridger?”

“No, we have no guns to spare,” said Stephen shortly.

A look of keen disappointment appeared on the deserter's face, but it swiftly passed and left him smiling and ingenuous.

“Good-night,” he said.

The camp-fire died down until nothing remained of it but a mass of glowing embers. The teamsters and Walsh had put away their cards and wrapped themselves in their blankets; Bushrod and Rogers had followed their example; their heavy breathing told that they already slept. The night wind that threshed the wagon canvases blew raw and cold. Stephen took up his rifle and made the circuit of the wagons, looking closely to the mules and horses, for the first watch was his.

His mind reverted more than once to the questionable wit of Raymond's joke, and it occurred to him as a thing to be steadily borne in mind that the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company had chosen illy who should be its friends. It would be a matter for deep thankfulness when they should reach Salt Lake, and could forever dispense with Basil, the half-breeds, and the too-smiling Raymond, whose perverted sense of humour permitted him to jestingly propose a murder.

The camp was astir at the first break of day. The night wind had blown itself out, and the sombre plains were heavy with silence. One by one the gold-seekers shook themselves out of their blankets, and without waste of words began their preparation for the day's journey.

Rogers drove the mules to water at a muddy hole a quarter of a mile from camp and beyond a slight ridge. He had just disappeared beyond this ridge, when the half-breed, Louis, took two of the horses, and started after him on the same errand. A moment later Basil and Baptiste mounted their's and rode out from camp. Raymond lounged across to his friends.

“Basil says you can start on if you like; he's gone to see if he can't knock over a buffalo cow, we're about out of meat,” he explained, and then, as if in verification of his words, they heard the sharp report of a rifle. “I reckon they've found what they're looking for,” said Raymond.

“I thought the shot sounded down by the water-hole,” said Bushrod.

“Yes, they were going around that way on account of their horses. Here, Mr. Landray, let me give you a hand with them blankets.” For Bushrod was making a roll of the bedding, preparatory to stowing it away in one of the wagons; the others were busy wedging up a shrunken wheel.

An instant later Rogers appeared on the ridge, but without the mules; he came running toward them, with his long rifle held in the crook of his arm.

“I've done it!” he cried hoarsely. “I've done it!” he repeated, when he reached them.

There was silence for a moment. No man spoke, for each feared to ask him what it was that he had done.

“I tell you I've done it, are you dumb?” he cried in wild and agonized appeal, and he looked from one to the other of his friends.

“What have you done?” Stephen asked.

“I've killed him.”

“You've killed whom?”

“Yonder half-breed. Damn his soul, he'll never get in a white man's way again—he'll keep his place!”

“You've murdered him, you mean?” Stephen spoke in a shocked whisper.

“It wa'n'. murder, Landray, I swear to God it wa'n'.! Who says murder to me, I've always been a fair man—who says murder to me?” and his wild, bloodshot eyes searched the circle of white faces.

“He'd a done for me if I hadn't shot him. He came down to the hole with his two horses; I was ahead of him, but he yelled to me to get out of his way; and when I told him he'd have to wait until I'd watered my stock, he tried to ride me down. I didn't lift a hand until then.”

Raymond was the first to speak.

“I wonder if that don't save me a hundred and a quarter; they certainly ain't entitled to his share, now are they?” But if they heard him, no one replied to the deserter, who continued to regard Rogers with an envious admiration. “The eternally condemned bag of bones, where'd he get the heart for it?” he muttered.

And then a savage cry came from the direction of the water-hole, telling that the body had been found by Basil and Baptiste. Stephen turned to Rogers.

“Get in one of the wagons, and lie still—take Benny with you—and, no matter what happens, stay there!” to the others he added: “Mind, right or wrong, we are not going to surrender him to them. That would but make a bad matter worse.”

“What's your notion, Steve?” asked Bushrod briskly. “Hadn't we better look sharp for the half-breed?”

“Yes, but don't be hasty. I'll attend to Basil.”

“Say, Mr. Landray, if you'll give me a gun I'll make the shot for you.” said the deserter officiously. He was not regarded, but he continued to loudly lament that he was unarmed.

Rogers had scarcely disappeared in one of the wagons when Basil and Baptiste galloped into camp; they flung themselves from their horses and confronted the little group about Stephen.

“Where is he?” Basil shouted, seizing the latter by the arm. “Where's Rogers? You're no kin to me unless you give him up to us.”

“Basil,” said Stephen quietly, falling back a step and freeing himself from the other's clutch, “it was the result of a quarrel, the fight was a fair one.”

“It's a lie—it was murder!” the fur trader cried hoarsely. “Where is he?” and he glared about him.

“Where you shan't touch him.”

“Shan't?” he raged, his black beard bristling.

“No.”

“Where've you hidden him?”

“Never mind. Where you can't find him?”

“Do you make this you're affair?”

“I won't say that, but it was self-defence. If he hadn't shot the Indian, the Indian would probably have shot him.”

“Who says so? Did you see the fight? Fight?” he laughed aloud. “Fight? It was murder, cowardly murder!”

“No, we didn't see the fight,” Stephen answered calmly.

“Oh, you take his word, do you? Well, I don't,” and he started toward the wagons. “He's in there, and by God, I'll have him out, and Baptiste here shall settle with him!”

“Dunlevy! Walsh!” called Stephen sharply.

The two men stepped in front of the fur trader.

“Basil,” said Stephen, “we'll inquire into this when we're all cooler.”

“We'll settle it now!” swore Basil, with a great oath.

“If he's done wrong he shall be punished; but not by you, not by us; the law—”

“Damn the law! There's only one law for the plains.”

“We'll hand him over to the commandant of the first military post.”

Rogers, who heard every word that was said where he lay in the bed of one of the wagons, with a barricade of boxes about him, smiled grimly at this.

“No they won't, son,” he whispered to the boy. “You and me will see California for all of them.”

He reached up over his barricade, and with his hunting-knife cut a slit in the wagon's canvas cover. The slit was just large enough to accommodate the muzzle of his rifle.

But now Basil withdrew to his own camp, taking with him the halfbreed and the deserter. The latter went with him reluctantly enough, for he knew the fur trader was in no mood to tamper with.

The five men about the wagons waited, never relaxing their vigilance. They expected something would be done or attempted, they scarcely knew what. They could hear nothing of what passed between Basil and his two companions, but they saw that he was talking earnestly with Raymond. Twice the deserter turned and looked toward them, finally he appeared to give a satisfactory answer to what Basil had been saying, and the conference came to an end; they heard the echo of his light laugh. He turned from Basil and the half-breed and approached Stephen, whom he seemed to regard with a quickened interest, but the friendly smile never left his selfish, good-natured face.

“Well, good-bye,” he said, and extended his hand. “I reckon I'll have to go with him yonder.”

“Are you willing to go with him?” Stephen asked.

“Oh, yes,” smiling evasively. “Yes, I'm plenty willing to go with him,” he said.

“Because if you have any fears for your safety—”

“No, I'm worth a heap more to him alive than I would be dead,” responded the deserter with an air of complacent conviction. He added pleasantly. “I reckon, though, it's right handsome of you to want to look out for me, and me a stranger.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “He'll calm down some; give him time. I allow he feels Baptiste is looking to him to take on like hell, but once he cuts loose from you gentlemen you needn't bother about him; he'll be mainly interested in getting on to California. Now if you keep on about due west you'll strike Green River sometime to-morrow; after you ford it, your trail leads a little south of west to the Bear.” He looked hard at Stephen.

“Thank you,” said the latter.

“Beyond the Bear you shouldn't have any trouble. You'll strike the Weber next, and you can just follow it into the valley, crossing Kamas Prairie. I know all that country—and don't worry none about him, he ain't hunting trouble. Well, good-bye, and good luck.”

He rejoined Basil and Baptiste.

“Why did he tell us that?” asked Bushrod suspiciously.

“Just his good-nature,” said Stephen indifferently, and thought no more of the deserter's advice until it became necessary to follow it.

The three men mounted their horses, and the fur trader again approached his cousins.

“Once more, will you give him up?” he asked.

But no one answered him.

“You won't give him up, eh? Well, look out,” and he shook his fist at them. “Look out, for I'll even this before I'm done with you.”

They heard his threat in silence, then seeing he was not to be answered, he wheeled about, and, followed by the half-breed and Raymond, crossed the ridge at a gallop. They stopped at the water-hole just long enough to lash the dead man to his saddle.

But Raymond, the deserter, rode away rejoicing in the possession of Louis's rifle which Basil had given him. When they had disappeared from sight, Stephen said to Bingham and Dunlevy: “Go down and look up the stock; if you find it's strayed from the water-hole, come back and we'll all turn out after it.”

Then, followed by Bushrod, he went to the wagons and called to Rogers. “They've gone. You've nothing to fear,” he said. The Californian crawled stiffly from his place of concealment. His friends were silent as he emerged from the wagon, against which he leaned for support.

“God knows it was a fair fight, Landray,” he said tremulously, for now, that the sustaining excitement was past, he was like one shaken with the ague. His face was drawn and ghastly, and his dark eyes burnt with an unearthly light. “He'd a done for me if I hadn't shot him. It was him or me; but it was mighty fair of you to stand by me.”

“We've stood by you, but I'm not satisfied, Rogers,” said Stephen moodily. “It's true he was an Indian, and it may be true, as you say, that you did the shooting in self-defence; I hope it was; but you've had bad blood for them from the start.”

“Bad blood! Yes, curse them—and curse me! for I've lived and camped with them for days and nights,” cried Rogers fiercely, glaring at Stephen. “If I'd been the man I was once I'd a fetched it to an issue long ago. See—” he held out a shaking hand, “You might think from that, he was the first. The heart's gone out of me with this cough that's tearing me asunder. It was the Indians killed my wife; I reckon if you stood in my place now you'd wonder why the hell we was arguing whether I shot yonder varment in fair fight or not: She'd gone to the corral—I'm telling you how my wife died—when I heard her cry out, and I ran to the ranch door. It wa'n'. two hundred yards to the coral, but it might as well been miles and she'd been no worse off; for it was surrounded; and when she ran shrieking through the bars, trying with all the strength God Almighty had given her, to make the house, they closed in about her and I saw one of them drive his axe into her brain.” The sweat stood in great beads on his brow. “I saw I was too late to help her, and I went back into the house and fastened the door, I still had him to think of—” pointing to the child. There was a long pause. Rogers gulped down something that rose in his throat, and went on: “Well, when the settlers who'd been hot on their trail ever since they broke loose on the settlement, come in and drove them off, and pulled Benny here and me out of the burning ranch house, they laid out ten of the red brutes. I'd let the daylight through.” He threw up his head defiantly. “What the hell do you suppose I care for one greasy half-breed!” and he clutched the stock of his gun with trembling fingers. “For God's sake,” he moaned, “Let's be moving. It was only a half-breed, what the hell's use quarrelling about him. I've sent him where he'll do no more harm.”