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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AS Anna turned from the lane into the public road she met a cart which held a man and a woman. They were on the point of entering the lane as she left it. She smiled and nodded gaily to the man; then she stared hard at his companion. She wondered whom it could be that Mr. Benson had with him, and what he was doing there. Then she regretted she had been in such haste to leave Virginia.
“I am always doing the most stupid things,” she said with a sigh. “I've almost a mind to turn back and pretend I've forgotten something. I wonder if I haven't?” but a hasty search revealed that her purse and handkerchief were in her pocket, and so, perforce, she continued on her way into town.
Meanwhile the cart had kept on up the lane toward the house. “That was Mrs. Bushrod Landray,” Benson explained. “I might have taken you to her, but I think you will prefer to meet her sister.”
When they reached the horse-block by the front steps, Benson climbed briskly down from the cart and turned to assist his companion to alight; but he saw that she hesitated. His glance was full of sympathy.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Walsh,” he said gently, and his whole manner was the extreme of kindness; then his face brightened. “Perhaps you'd rather I saw her first alone; I can just as well as not. It will save you all explanation. If you don't mind sitting here—” Mrs. Walsh hesitated. “I hardly like to ask so much of you, you have been more than kind already.”
“You must regard me merely as your intermediary. We lawyers are accustomed to execute all kinds of commissions.” and he handed her the reins.
“But not always for such an unprofitable client, Mr. Benson,” she answered gravely.
“Sometimes the mere ability to serve carries its own recompense, Mrs. Walsh. The idea of any other would degrade the service,” and he made her a formal little bow. Then he turned away and went slowly up the steps.
He had not seen Virginia since the day he had driven out to the farm to consult Stephen about the renewal of the note. Virginia herself answered his knock, but her beautiful face was impassive and calm, and her glance strayed on beyond him to the woman in the cart. He felt a sudden sense of exultation in her presence, and the blood mounted warmly to his cheek. He half extended his hand, but while he hesitated, Virginia drew back a step, it might have been unconsciously, and his hand fell at his side.
“Will you grant me a moment in private, Mrs. Landray?” he said deferentially, for even when he came to have the feeling for her that was neither hate nor love, but some part of each, he still paid her this tacit homage; his manner never altered.
Virginia looked at him in surprise, but said: “Certainly, will you come into the library, Mr. Benson?” The conscious severity of her manner toward him did not relax.
This call was quite incomprehensible to her. She acknowledged, however, that to gratify a reasonable curiosity on this point she must sacrifice the opportunity to show her just indignation at the part she still believed he had played in sending her husband West. She led the way down the hall and into the library, where she silently motioned him to a chair. He seated himself and carefully placed his hat and gloves on the floor at his feet. While he was thus engaged her calm eyes were fixed upon him, their look grave and inquiring; and he experienced somewhat the same feeling he had known some five years before when he faced his first judge and jury; there were the same dry lips and parched throat, the same wonder in his heart if anything would come of it when he opened his lips to speak. He knew that his task would not be lightened by any word of hers.
“It's rather a difficult matter that brings me here,” he began haltingly. “I should not have ventured on this errand had it not been that the need was very urgent. You will remember that when your husband went West he took with him a young man by the name of Walsh?”
It was an unlucky start, for Virginia's face hardened perceptibly. He was immediately conscious of this, even while he did not divine the reason for it. He bit his lip, angry with himself that he had not first made his appeal to her pity. Then his pride came to the rescue; this was not the first hostile judge he had confronted.
“Walsh was only recently married when he joined the company; he was a stranger here, but, I believe, a man of excellent antecedents; however, the really serious part of it is, that his wife is quite alone and entirely friendless.”
“I have no patience with him for leaving her,” said Virginia.
“It is hard to condone,” admitted the lawyer.
“It seems to me, Mr. Benson, that since he was too careless to think of his wife's happiness himself, some friend should have reminded him of his duty.”
“I am aware his judgment in the matter may readily be called into question, Mrs. Landray, but I suppose he expects to make his fortune.” He was bent on agreeing with her. He felt her anger but was unable to determine a motive for it.
“And so make amends for all his selfishness? As if he ever could,” cried Virginia in a tone of keen exasperation.
Benson picked up his hat and smoothed the crown nervously. Her manner was inexplicable.
“I wonder you did not advise him as to his duty,” added Virginia.
“I, Mrs. Landray? Why, I never spoke ten words to the man in my life until the day before the company left; then he came to my office and placed one or two small matters of business in my hands.”
“Oh,” said Virginia haughtily. “Your advice was reserved for your friends and clients.”
“Really, Mrs. Landray,” answered Benson quietly, “I am very unfortunate in that I seem to have offended you, but I assure you I am quite in the dark as to what my misdeeds are.”
But Virginia was in no mood to explain; indeed, she considered him quite unworthy of any such frankness, which would have argued an intimacy she did not admit.
“Just now you were speaking to me of Mrs. Walsh,” she said, with a swift change of position, and with a polite if passive interest. “What more have you to tell me of her?”
“While I quite agree with you that Walsh was singularly negligent of her happiness in going West, and in leaving her here among strangers, still the fact remains he did go, but that's not the worst of it. It seems—and Mrs. Walsh told me this with the greatest reluctance—it seems that the money he had put aside for her support in his absence has been lost in some speculation of his brother's, in whose hands the money was left. As nearly as I can gather, Mrs. Walsh is absolutely penniless. She has appealed to me for advice, and I am quite at a loss to know what to suggest; I suppose she can secure employment here of some sort.” Benson paused, and rubbed his chin reflectively and a trifle ruefully. “The whole matter is rather out of my line; but she is so manifestly a lady that I should say it narrowed her chances very materially; naturally, too, she is crushed and humiliated by the whole circumstance, and is hardly able to think for herself. I hoped—I thought—you might be willing to see and advise with her. I know I have no right to impose this upon you, still you have nothing to fear from her, in the way of becoming a dependent, I mean; she is in no sense an object of charity; on the contrary she shows a commendable pride and entire independence of spirit; but she is very young and inexperienced, really scarcely more than a child. I thought you might be able to suggest something she could do. I hardly know what, but surely there is some occupation she can take up until such time as her husband can make suitable provision for her,” he concluded hesitatingly. “I didn't know whom to turn to, until I thought of you.”
There was a pause during which Virginia considered the matter in all its lights. At another time her sympathies, which were always generous, would have led her to prompt action, but now, with the idea of the decay of the family fortunes firmly implanted in her mind, she was reluctant to take a step that might involve her in any way.
Benson's face fell. He had expected something different of her. He half rose from his chair.
“I fear I was entirely too hasty.” There was palpable disappointment in his manner which he did not attempt to conceal.
“No, no,” said Virginia quickly. “I was only wondering if I knew of anything.”