The two men glared at each other, but Gibbs was the first to recover his temper; the ruddy tint came back to his cheeks. “Well, since we can't drink, suppose we talk about the tavern and distillery. Do you think you can find a purchaser for them?” he asked. “Yes.” The captain spread his coat tails before the fire and beamed on Benson. He seemed in no haste to take his leave. “I don't admire your manners, Jake, but I do respect your business ability. I suppose some correspondence will be necessary with Mrs. Gibbs touching these matters?” “Yes.” “Then,” said the captain, “I'd better get back to St. Louis. I'll have to ask you to look out for her interests here. I don't bear malice. I put it all down to youth and inexperience. One of these days you'll master the great moral truth that there ain't any good in what's fun for you, and that there ain't any fun in what's good for you. I've cut my cloth accordingly.” He mused in silence for a moment, and then asked suddenly, “What do you hear from the Landrays?” “We hear nothing,” said Benson briefly. “That's odd,” and the captain fell silent again. “Have Mrs. Gibbs inform me of her wishes,” said Benson, desiring to be rid of his caller. “Oh, yes, but hold on, I was thinking about the Landrays. I didn't tell you, did I, that before we heard of Tucker's death, we'd gone up to St. Joseph; while there I fell in with a trapper in the employ of the American Fur Company—a French Canadian named LaTour—he had some fine beaver skins that Mrs. Gibbs was anxious I should buy for her; well, I didn't buy them, funds were too low; but I did make one purchase of him, and you'll never guess what it was! It was a sheath-knife with Stephen Landray's name cut in the horn handle.” And now Benson was deeply interested; he forgot all about his righteous contempt for the captain, in his eagerness to learn more. “Did you ask the trapper how he came by the knife?” he demanded. “Naturally. LaTour said he had lost his own knife, and had bought this one of a Mormon freighter he met in the mountains near Salt Lake.” “But did you learn how the knife came to be in possession of this Mormon?” asked Benson. “Why, no. LaTour asked him no questions. I suppose Stephen must have lost the knife; it probably dropped out of its sheath, you know.” “I dare say;” and Benson turned this over in his mind; he felt that it was a matter to be carefully thought out. For one thing, it meant that his search need not begin east of Salt Lake, and this was a very important point. He was grateful to Gibbs; and his manner became almost friendly. “How long do you expect to remain here?” he asked. Gibbs laughed uneasily. “I left the stage at Columbus and hired a man to drive me over,” he explained. “I guess I'd better go back there the first thing in the morning. You were unkind enough to suggest tar and feathers; the hint wasn't wasted.” “Perhaps I was a little severe, Gibbs,” said Benson grudgingly. “But you know she is my cousin.”