“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.