"No."

"A pretty squaw?"

"Ha, ha. No, not this time; they're too d-- scarce."

"Well, what did you find, man? Don't be so mysterious."

"I found this," and Pritchen drew from beneath his buckskin jacket a small book, which had been kept in place by his leathern belt. "Look,"

he said, holding it up to view, "isn't that a find! 'Robert Browning's Selected Poems,' that's what it is."

"Oh, is that all," replied one in disgust. "Deal the cards, Tim, and let's have another game."

"No, it's not all by a d-- sight," and Pritchen helped himself to another plateful of beans. "But then if you fellows don't want to hear the rest, it's all right; it'll keep."

"Come, Bill," coaxed Perdue, "never mind Missouri; all he thinks about is cards. Let's have yer yarn."

"Well, what would you think if you found a book like that miles from nowhere?" replied Pritchen, who was most anxious to tell his story.

"'Tis queer, when ye come to think of it," soliloquized Perdue with a characteristic nod of the head. "It's very much out of the ordinary, I should say."

"And suppose you were out hunting," went on Pritchen, "and, reaching the Ibex cabin late at night, found the place looking as if h.e.l.l had been let loose, and this book lying on the floor, what would you think?

You'd wonder a d-- lot, wouldn't you?"

"Sure," a.s.sented Perdue.

"And suppose in the morning, being somewhat suspicious, you nosed around a bit outside, and found a steep rock with two letters and a cross cut upon it, you would wonder some more, wouldn't you?"

"Y'bet," broke in Missouri, who had forgotten his cards in the story.

"Then when you saw wolf tracks on every hand, the snow all dug up at the foot of the rock, torn pieces of clothes lying around, and other things too terrible to mention, you would feel very sick, wouldn't you?"

"My G.o.d, yes!" exclaimed the men. "Did you find all that, and where?"

"And what would you think," continued Pritchen, thoroughly enjoying the sensation he was causing, "if the man responsible for it all came to Kla.s.san and never said a word about it to any one?"

"That it looked mighty suspicious," replied Perdue. "But is there any one here who knows about the matter?"

"Maybe this'll tell the tale," and Pritchen opened the book he was holding in his hand. "See, look for yourselves; there's something to think over."

"Read it, Bill; let's have it, quick."

Holding the volume to the flickering candle light, Pritchen read the following, written in a firm hand:

"Keith Steadman, "First Prize for proficiency in English Literature.

"Collegiate School, "Windsor, N. S.

"Christmas, 18--."

"What, is that the parson?" asked Tim.

"Certainly, who else would it be?" replied Perdue.

Silence followed these words, and the men looked at one another.

Pritchen, noticing this, was vexed and puzzled.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he blurted out.

"I don't think much about it, if you ask me," responded Missouri. "You can't prove that the parson had anything to do with that chap's death."

"But the book."

"Oh, he might have spent a night there, and dropped the book; that's all."

"But the letters, and the cross on the rock; what about them?"

"Any man might have done that. And if the parson did find a sick man in the cabin who died on his hands, he would naturally bury him in the snow, and put up some marks. It's all quite natural."

"But why didn't he say something about it when he came to Kla.s.san?"

"Blamed if I know. Maybe he had some reason. Anyway it doesn't prove anything."

"I didn't say it did," snapped Pritchen, who was feeling sore at this man's indifference, and considerate way of looking at the matter. His elation had very much cooled in the presence of these men. They were known throughout the camp as miners who were wedded to their cards, and took only a pa.s.sing interest in the events around them. They were seldom mixed up in any quarrel, and their words were few. He had noticed that only these were in the store with Perdue, but had not given it much thought before, so full was he of his story. Now he wondered what had become of his own gang. He knew he could make an impression upon them.

"Where are the rest of the boys?" he asked, turning to Perdue.

"Over at the Reading Room," replied the latter. "There's a big time on there to-night."

"What's up?" and Pritchen's face darkened as various thoughts flashed through his mind.

"Ye needn't worry," Perdue hastened to explain. "The boys are all right. They're only after a little fun. Ye see, there's a debate on, and that's why they're there."

"A debate! On what?"

"Ye'd never guess, Bill. It's a h-- of a subject. 'Which has caused more misery in the world, war or whiskey?' that's what it is."

"Ha, ha," laughed Pritchen. "They're after you, Jim. Ain't you going to hold up your end of the game?"

"Not much. The boys'll do that all right without me."

"And they mean business?"

"Who, the boys?"

"Yes."

"Sure, and I'm to give drinks all around when they're through, as my part of the fun. Ye'd better go along."

"But I'll be too late."