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.