With my wash bowl on my knee.” At first he sang the words under his breath, crooning them softly over and over to himself; then the song grew louder and louder until he finally bellowed the words in a deep rugged bass. The sound cut like a knife, and Benny shrank from his side in alarm. “Be still, Rogers!” ordered Stephen sharply. “Why the hell do you want me to keep still? I'm letting 'em know how gay we feel,” and he began to sing again, “I soon shall be in 'Frisco And then I'll look all round—” “I tell you, Rogers, keep still!” cried Landray. The Californian paused, and glared at him vacantly. “Rogers,” he repeated slowly, “Who's talking about Rogers? That's a good joke; Rogers is dead—the redskins done for him handsome; but first he killed ten of the devils. They stripped off his shirt and cut ten gashes in his back, and then they stabbed him ten times, and drove a stake in his eye and filled the hole with powder and blew his skull to pieces. That's the trick they played Rogers.” He seemed to dwell on this horrible fancy with positive delight. “Rogers was a murdering cuss anyhow, but God Almighty fixed it so he got come up with all right!” While he was speaking he had half risen to his feet, but now he squatted down once more. Benny thrust the stock of a rifle toward him, his hands closed about it instinctively; he seemed to be recalled to himself. “Keep low, son,” he cautioned, “they sha'n'. serve us as they served Rogers. Presently we'll be on the move.” But Benny, wide-eyed and frightened, and not comprehending the change that had come over him, only shrank further and further away. An instant later the Californian dropped his gun. “What's the use!” he cried, springing to his feet. “Get down, Rogers! Get down, you fool!” cried Stephen angrily. “I want some of Bingham's luck!” He swung about on his heel, searching the horizon with heavy bloodshot eyes. “Where's the West? There's gold there; put the mules to the wagons—let's be moving—gold! Do you hear? Me and Benny needs it!” And before they divined his purpose he had leaped the barricade. Bushrod sprang after him and with his uninjured hand sought to draw him back; they struggled fiercely together for a moment, and then Rogers exerting his strength dragged him across the hilltop. “Let him go, Bush!” shouted Stephen. Bushrod freed himself from the madman's clutch and turned to regain the shelter of the wagons; but at this moment a horseman galloped swiftly up the slope and drew rein not ten paces distant; he threw himself from his horse and raised his rifle. It might have been some horrid fancy that the eyes that looked at him out of the smear of paint were Basil Landray's eyes, but there was no mistaking the beard.