i

many fish were still in the pool; and though luck seemed to have left me, still i stood at the end of the point, casting and casting my vain line, while the virginian lay and watched. noonday's extreme brightness had left the river and the plain in cooling shadow, but spread and glowed over the yet undimmed mountains. westward, the tetons lifted their peaks pale and keen as steel through the high, radiant air. deep down between the blue gashes of their canons the sun sank long shafts of light, and the glazed laps of their snow-fields shone separate and white upon their lofty vastness, like handkerchiefs laid out to dry. opposite, above the valley, rose that other range, the continental divide, not sharp, but long and ample. it was bare in some high places, and below these it stretched everywhere, high and low, in brown and yellow parks, or in purple miles of pine a world of serene undulations, a great sweet country of silence.

a passing band of antelope stood herded suddenly together at sight of us; then a little breeze blew for a moment from us to them, and they drifted like phantoms away, and were lost in the levels of the sage-brush.

“if humans could do like that,” said the virginian, watching them go.

“run, you mean?” said i.

“tell a foe by the smell of him,” explained the cow-puncher; “at fifty yards—or a mile.”

“yes,” i said; “men would be hard to catch.”

“a woman needs it most,” he murmured. he lay down again in his lounging sprawl, with his grave eyes intently fixed upon my fly-casting.

the gradual day mounted up the hills farther from the floor of earth. warm airs eddied in its wake slowly, stirring the scents of the plain together. i looked at the southerner; and there was no guessing what his thoughts might be at work upon behind that drowsy glance. then for a moment a trout rose, but only to look and whip down again into the pool that wedged its calm into the riffle from below.

“second thoughts,” mused the virginian; and as the trout came no more, “second thoughts,” he repeated; “and even a fish will have them sooner than folks has them in this mighty hasty country.” and he rolled over into a new position of ease.

at whom or what was he aiming these shafts of truth? or did he moralize merely because health and the weather had steeped him in that serenity which lifts us among the spheres? well, sometimes he went on from these beginnings and told me wonderful things.

“i reckon,” said he, presently, “that knowing when to change your mind would be pretty near knowledge enough for plain people.”

since my acquaintance with him—this was the second summer of it—i had come to understand him enough to know that he was unfathomable. still, for a moment it crossed my thoughts that perhaps now he was discoursing about himself. he had allowed a jealous foreman to fall out with him at sunk creek ranch in the spring, during judge henry's absence. the man, having a brief authority, parted with him. the southerner had chosen that this should be the means of ultimately getting the foreman dismissed and himself recalled. it was strategic. as he put it to me: “when i am gone, it will be right easy for the judge to see which of us two he wants. and i'll not have done any talking.” all of which duly befell in the autumn as he had planned: the foreman was sent off, his assistant promoted, and the virginian again hired. but this was meanwhile. he was indulging himself in a several months' drifting, and while thus drifting he had written to me. that is how we two came to be on our way from the railroad to hunt the elk and the mountain-sheep, and were pausing to fish where buffalo fork joins its waters with snake river. in those days the antelope still ran there in hundreds, the yellowstone park was a new thing, and mankind lived very far away. since meeting me with the horses in idaho the virginian had been silent, even for him. so now i stood casting my fly, and trusting that he was not troubled with second thoughts over his strategy.

“have yu' studded much about marriage?” he now inquired. his serious eyes met mine as he lay stretched along the ground.

“not much,” i said; “not very much.”

“let's swim,” he said. “they have changed their minds.”

forthwith we shook off our boots and dropped our few clothes, and heedless of what fish we might now drive away, we went into the cool, slow, deep breadth of backwater which the bend makes just there. as he came up near me, shaking his head of black hair, the cowpuncher was smiling a little.

“not that any number of baths,” he remarked, “would conceal a man's objectionableness from an antelope—not even a she-one.”

then he went under water, and came up again a long way off.

we dried before the fire, without haste. to need no clothes is better than purple and fine linen. then he tossed the flap-jacks, and i served the trout, and after this we lay on our backs upon a buffalo-hide to smoke and watch the tetons grow more solemn, as the large stars opened out over the sky.

“i don't care if i never go home,” said i.

the virginian nodded. “it gives all the peace o' being asleep with all the pleasure o' feeling the widest kind of awake,” said he. “yu' might say the whole year's strength flows hearty in every waggle of your thumb.” we lay still for a while. “how many things surprise yu' any more?” he next asked.

i began considering; but his silence had at length worked round to speech.

“inventions, of course,” said he, “these hyeh telephones an' truck yu' see so much about in the papers—but i ain't speaking o' such things of the brain. it is just the common things i mean. the things that a livin', noticin' man is liable to see and maybe sample for himself. how many o' them kind can surprise yu' still?”

i still considered.

“most everything surprised me onced,” the cow-puncher continued, in his gentle southern voice. “i must have been a mighty green boy. till i was fourteen or fifteen i expect i was astonished by ten o'clock every morning. but a man begins to ketch on to folks and things after a while. i don't consideh that when—that afteh a man is, say twenty-five, it is creditable he should get astonished too easy. and so yu've not examined yourself that-away?”

i had not.

“well, there's two things anyway—i know them for sure—that i expect will always get me—don't care if i live to thirty-five, or forty-five, or eighty. and one's the ways lightning can strike.” he paused. then he got up and kicked the fire, and stood by it, staring at me. “and the other is the people that other people will marry.”

he stopped again; and i said nothing.

“the people that other people will marry,” he repeated. “that will surprise me till i die.”

“if my sympathy—” i began.

but the brief sound that he gave was answer enough, and more than enough cure for my levity.

“no,” said he, reflectively; “not any such thing as a fam'ly for me, yet. never, it may be. not till i can't help it. and that woman has not come along so far. but i have been sorry for a woman lately. i keep thinking what she will do. for she will have to do something. do yu' know austrians? are they quick in their feelings, like i-talians? or are they apt to be sluggish, same as norwegians and them other dutch-speakin' races?”

i told him what little i knew about austrians.

“this woman is the first i have ever saw of 'em,” he continued. “of course men will stampede into marriage in this hyeh western country, where a woman is a scanty thing. it ain't what hank has done that surprises me. and it is not on him that the sorrow will fall. for she is good. she is very good. do yu' remember little black hank? from texas he claims he is. he was working on the main ditch over at sunk creek last summer when that em'ly hen was around. well, seh, yu' would not have pleasured in his company. and this year hank is placer-mining on galena creek, where we'll likely go for sheep. there's honey wiggin and a young fello' named lin mclean, and some others along with the outfit. but hank's woman will not look at any of them, though the mclean boy is a likely hand. i have seen that; for i have done a right smart o' business that-a-way myself, here and there. she will mend their clothes for them, and she will cook lunches for them any time o' day, and her conduct gave them hopes at the start. but i reckon austrians have good religion.”

“no better than americans,” said i.

but the virginian shook his head. “better'n what i've saw any americans have. of course i am not judging a whole nation by one citizen, and especially her a woman. and of course in them big austrian towns the folks has shook their virtuous sayin's loose from their daily doin's, same as we have. i expect selling yourself brings the quickest returns to man or woman all the world over. but i am speakin' not of towns, but of the back country, where folks don't just merely arrive on the cyars, but come into the world the natural way, and grow up slow. onced a week anyway they see the bunch of old grave-stones that marks their fam'ly. their blood and name are knowed about in the neighborhood, and it's not often one of such will sell themselves. but their religion ain't to them like this woman's. they can be rip-snortin' or'tn'ary in ways. now she is getting naught but hindrance and temptation and meanness from her husband and every livin' thing around her—yet she keeps right along, nor does she mostly bear any signs in her face. she has cert'nly come from where they are used to believing in god and a hereafter mighty hard, and all day long. she has got one o' them crucifixes, and hank can't make her quit prayin' to it. but what is she going to do?”

“he will probably leave her,” i said.

“yes,” said the virginian—“leave her. alone; her money all spent; knowin' maybe twenty words of english; and thousands of miles away from everything she can understand. for our words and ways is all alike strange to her.”

“then why did he want such a person?” i exclaimed.

there was surprise in the grave glance which the cow-puncher gave me. “why, any man would,” he answered. “i wanted her myself, till i found she was good.”

i looked at this son of the wilderness, standing thoughtful and splendid by the fire, and unconscious of his own religion that had unexpectedly shone forth in these last words. but i said nothing; for words too intimate, especially words of esteem, put him invariably to silence.

“i had forgot to mention her looks to yu'.” he pursued, simply. “she is fit for a man.” he stopped again.

“then there was her wages that hank saw paid to her,” he resumed. “and so marriage was but a little thing to hank—agaynst such a heap of advantages. as for her idea in takin' such as him—maybe it was that he was small and she was big; tall and big. or maybe it was just his white teeth. them ridiculous reasons will bring a woman to a man, haven't yu' noticed? but maybe it was just her sorrowful, helpless state, left stranded as she was, and him keeping himself near her and sober for a week.

“i had been seein' this hyeh yellowstone park, takin' in its geysers, and this and that, for my enjoyment; and when i found what they claimed about its strange sights to be pretty near so, i landed up at galena creek to watch the boys prospectin'. honey wiggin, yu' know, and mclean, and the rest. and so they got me to go down with hank to gardner for flour and sugar and truck, which we had to wait for. we lay around the mammoth springs and gardner for three days, playin' cyards with friends. and i got plumb interested in them tourists. for i had partly forgot about eastern people. and hyeh they came fresh every day to remind a man of the great size of his country. most always they would talk to yu' if yu' gave 'em the chance; and i did. i have come mighty nigh regrettin' that i did not keep a tally of the questions them folks asked me. and as they seemed genu-winely anxious to believe anything at all, and the worser the thing the believinger they'd grow, why i—well, there's times when i have got to lie to keep in good health.

“so i fooled and i fooled. and one noon i was on the front poach of the big hotel they have opened at the mammoth springs for tourists, and the hotel kid, bein' on the watchout, he sees the dust comin' up the hill, and he yells out, 'stage!'

“yu've not saw that hotel yet, seh? well, when the kid says 'stage,' the consequences is most sudden. about as conspicuous, yu' may say, as when old faithful geyser lets loose. yu' see, one batch o' tourists pulls out right after breakfast for norris basin, leavin' things empty and yawnin'. by noon the whole hotel outfit has been slumberin' in its chairs steady for three hours. maybe yu' might hear a fly buzz, but maybe not. everything's liable to be restin', barrin' the kid. he's a-watchin' out. then he sees the dust, and he says 'stage!' and it touches the folks off like a hot pokeh. the syndicate manager he lopes to a lookin'glass, and then organizes himself behind the book; and the young photograph chap bounces out o' his private door like one o' them cuckoo clocks; and the fossil man claws his specimens and curiosities into shape, and the porters line up same as parade, and away goes the piano and fiddles up-stairs. it is mighty conspicuous. so hank he come rennin' out from somewheres too, and the stage drives up.

“then out gets a tall woman, and i noticed her yello' hair. she was kind o' dumb-eyed, yet fine to see. i reckon hank noticed her too, right away. and right away her trouble begins. for she was a lady's maid, and her lady was out of the stage and roundin' her up quick. and it's 'where have you put the keys, willomene?' the lady was rich and stinkin' lookin', and had come from new yawk in her husband's private cyar.

“well, willomene fussed around in her pockets, and them keys was not there. so she started explaining in tanglefoot english to her lady how her lady must have took them from her before leavin' the cyar. but the lady seemed to relish hustlin' herself into a rage. she got tolerable conspicuous, too. and after a heap o' words, 'you are discharged,' she says; and off she struts. soon her husband came out to willomene, still standin' like statuary, and he pays her a good sum of cash, and he goes away, and she keeps a standing yet for a spell. then all of a sudden she says something i reckon was 'o, jesus,' and sits down and starts a cryin'.

“i would like to have given her comfort. but we all stood around on the hotel poach, and the right thing would not come into my haid. then the baggage-wagon came in from cinnabar, and they had picked the keys up on the road between cinnabar and gardner. so the lady and her toilet was rescued, but that did no good to willomene. they stood her trunk down along with the rest—a brass-nailed little old concern—and there was willomene out of a job and afoot a long, long ways from her own range; and so she kept sitting, and onced in a while she'd cry some more. we got her a room in the cheap hotel where the park drivers sleeps when they're in at the springs, and she acted grateful like, thanking the boys in her tanglefoot english. next mawnin' her folks druv off in a private team to norris basin, and she seemed dazed. for i talked with her then, and questioned her as to her wishes, but she could not say what she wished, nor if it was east or west she would go; and i reckon she was too stricken to have wishes.

“our stuff for galena creek delayed on the railroad, and i got to know her, and then i quit givin' hank cause for jealousy. i kept myself with the boys, and i played more cyards, while hank he sca'cely played at all. one night i came on them—hank and willomene—walkin' among the pines where the road goes down the hill. yu' should have saw that pair o' lovers. her big shape was plain and kind o' steadfast in the moon, and alongside of her little black hank! and there it was. of course it ain't nothing to be surprised at that a mean and triflin' man tries to seem what he is not when he wants to please a good woman. but why does she get fooled, when it's so plain to other folks that are not givin' it any special thought? all the rest of the men and women at the mammoth understood hank. they knowed he was a worthless proposition. and i cert'nly relied on his gettin' back to his whiskey and openin' her eyes that way. but he did not. i met them next evening again by the liberty cap. supposin' i'd been her brother or her mother, what use was it me warning her? brothers and mothers don't get believed.

“the railroad brought the stuff for galena creek, and hank would not look at it on account of his courtin'. i took it alone myself by yancey's and the second bridge and miller creek to the camp, nor i didn't tell willomene good-bye, for i had got disgusted at her blindness.”

the virginian shifted his position, and jerked his overalls to a more comfortable fit. then he continued:

“they was married the tuesday after at livingston, and hank must have been pow'ful pleased at himself. for he gave willomene a wedding present, with the balance of his cash, spending his last nickel on buying her a red-tailed parrot they had for sale at the first national bank. the son-of-a-gun hollad so freely at the bank, the president awde'd the cashier to get shed of the out-ragious bird, or he would wring its neck.

“so hank and willomene stayed a week up in livingston on her money, and then he fetched her back to gardner, and bought their grub, and bride and groom came up to the camp we had on galena creek.

“she had never slep' out before. she had never been on a hawss, neither. and she mighty near rolled off down into pitchstone canyon, comin' up by the cut-off trail. why, seh, i would not willingly take you through that place, except yu' promised me yu' would lead your hawss when i said to. but hank takes the woman he had married, and he takes heavy-loaded pack-hawsses. 'tis the first time such a thing has been known of in the country. yu' remember them big tall grass-topped mountains over in the hoodoo country, and how they descends slam down through the cross-timber that yu' can't scatcely work through afoot, till they pitches over into lots an' lots o' little canyons, with maybe two inches of water runnin' in the bottom? all that is east fork water, and over the divide is clark's fork, or stinkin' water, if yu' take the country yondeh to the southeast. but any place yu' go is them undesirable steep slopes, and the cut-off trail takes along about the worst in the business.

“well, hank he got his outfit over it somehow, and, gentlemen, hush! but yu'd ought t've seen him and that poor girl pull into our camp. yu'd cert'nly never have conjectured them two was a weddin' journey. he was leadin', but skewed around in his saddle to jaw back at willomene for riding so ignorant. suppose it was a thing she was responsible for, yu'd not have talked to her that-a-way even in private; and hyeh was the camp a-lookin', and a-listenin', and some of us ashamed. she was setting straddleways like a mountain, and between him and her went the three packanimals, plumb shiverin' played out, and the flour—they had two hundred pounds—tilted over hellwards, with the red-tailed parrot shoutin' landslides in his cage tied on top o' the leanin' sacks.

“it was that mean to see, that shameless and unkind, that even a thoughtless kid like the mclean boy felt offended, and favorable to some sort of remonstrance. 'the son-of-a—!' he said to me. 'the son-of-a—! if he don't stop, let's stop him.' and i reckon we might have.

“but hank he quit. 'twas plain to see he'd got a genu-wine scare comin' through pitchstone canyon, and it turned him sour, so he'd hardly talk to us, but just mumbled 'how!' kind o' gruff, when the boys come up to congratulate him as to his marriage.

“but willomene, she says when she saw me, 'oh, i am so glad!' and we shook hands right friendly. and i wished i'd told her good-bye that day at the mammoth. for she bore no spite, and maybe i had forgot her feelings in thinkin' of my own. i had talked to her down at the mammoth at first, yu' know, and she said a word about old friends. our friendship was three weeks old that day, but i expect her new experiences looked like years to her. and she told me how near she come to gettin' killed.

“yu' ain't ever been over that trail, seh? yu' cert'nly must see pitchstone canyon. but we'll not go there with packs. and we will get off our hawsses a good ways back. for many animals feels that there's something the matter with that place, and they act very strange about it.

“the grand canyon is grand, and makes yu' feel good to look at it, and a geyser is grand and all right, too. but this hyeh pitchstone hole, if willomene had went down into that—well, i'll tell yu', that you may judge.

“she seen the trail a-drawin' nearer and nearer the aidge, between the timber and the jumpin'-off place, and she seen how them little loose stones and the crumble stuff would slide and slide away under the hawss's feet. she could hear the stuff rattlin' continually from his steps, and when she turned her haid to look, she seen it goin' down close beside her, but into what it went she could not see. only, there was a queer steam would come up now and agayn, and her hawss trembled. so she tried to get off and walk without sayin' nothin' to hank. he kep' on ahaid, and her hawss she had pulled up started to follo' as she was half off him, and that gave her a tumble, but there was an old crooked dead tree. it growed right out o' the aidge. there she hung.

“down below is a little green water tricklin', green as the stuff that gets on brass, and tricklin' along over soft cream-colored formation, like pie. and it ain't so far to fall but what a man might not be too much hurt for crawlin' out. but there ain't no crawlin' out o' pitchstone canyon, they say. down in there is caves that yu' cannot see. 'tis them that coughs up the stream now and agayn. with the wind yu' can smell 'em a mile away, and in the night i have been layin' quiet and heard 'em. not that it's a big noise, even when a man is close up. it's a fluffy kind of a sigh. but it sounds as if some awful thing was a-makin' it deep down in the guts of the world. they claim there's poison air comes out o' the caves and lays low along the water. they claim if a bear or an elk strays in from below, and the caves sets up their coughin', which they don't regular every day, the animals die. i have seen it come in two seconds. and when it comes that-a-way risin' upon yu' with that fluffy kind of a sigh, yu' feel mighty lonesome, seh.

“so hank he happened to look back and see willomene hangin' at the aidge o' them black rocks. and his scare made him mad. and his mad stayed with him till they come into camp. she looked around, and when she seen hank's tent that him and her was to sleep in she showed surprise. and he showed surprise when he see the bread she cooked.

“'what kind of a dutch woman are yu',' says he, strainin' for a joke, 'if yu' can't use a dutch-oven?'

“'you say to me you have a house to live in,' says willomene. 'where is that house?'

“'i did not figure on gettin' a woman when i left camp,' says hank, grinnin', but not pleasant, 'or i'd have hurried up with the shack i'm a buildin'.'

“he was buildin' one. when i left galena creek and come away from that country to meet you, the house was finished enough for the couple to move in. i hefted her brass-nailed trunk up the hill from their tent myself, and i watched her take out her crucifix. but she would not let me help her with that. she'd not let me touch it. she'd fixed it up agaynst the wall her own self her own way. but she accepted some flowers i picked, and set them in a can front of the crucifix. then hank he come in, and seein', says to me, 'are you one of the kind that squats before them silly dolls?' 'i would tell yu', i answered him; 'but it would not inter-est yu'.' and i cleared out, and left him and willomene to begin their housekeepin'.

“already they had quit havin' much to say to each other down in their tent. the only steady talkin' done in that house was done by the parrot. i've never saw any go ahaid of that bird. i have told yu' about hank, and how when he'd come home and see her prayin' to that crucifix he'd always get riled up. he would mention it freely to the boys. not that she neglected him, yu' know. she done her part, workin' mighty hard, for she was a willin' woman. but he could not make her quit her religion; and willomene she had got to bein' very silent before i come away. she used to talk to me some at first, but she dropped it. i don't know why. i expect maybe it was hard for her to have us that close in camp, witnessin' her troubles every day, and she a foreigner. i reckon if she got any comfort, it would be when we was off prospectin' or huntin', and she could shut the cabin door and be alone.”

the virginian stopped for a moment.

“it will soon be a month since i left galena creek,” he resumed. “but i cannot get the business out o' my haid. i keep a studyin' over it.”

his talk was done. he had unburdened his mind. night lay deep and quiet around us, with no sound far or near, save buffalo fork plashing over its riffle.

ii

we left snake river. we went up pacific creek, and through two ocean pass, and down among the watery willow-bottoms and beaverdams of the upper yellowstone. we fished; we enjoyed existence along the lake. then we went over pelican creek trail and came steeply down into the giant country of grasstopped mountains. at dawn and dusk the elk had begun to call across the stillness. and one morning in the hoodoo country, where we were looking for sheep, we came round a jut of the strange, organ-pipe formation upon a longlegged boy of about nineteen, also hunting.

“still hyeh?” said the virginian, without emotion.

“i guess so,” returned the boy, equally matter-of-fact. “yu' seem to be around yourself,” he added.

they might have been next-door neighbors, meeting in a town street for the second time in the same day.

the virginian made me known to mr. lin mclean, who gave me a brief nod.

“any luck?” he inquired, but not of me.

“oh,” drawled the virginian, “luck enough.”

knowing the ways of the country, i said no word. it was bootless to interrupt their own methods of getting at what was really in both their minds.

the boy fixed his wide-open hazel eyes upon me. “fine weather,” he mentioned.

“very fine,” said i.

“i seen your horses a while ago,” he said. “camp far from here?” he asked the virginian.

“not specially. stay and eat with us. we've got elk meat.”

“that's what i'm after for camp,” said mclean. “all of us is out on a hunt to-day—except him.”

“how many are yu' now?”

“the whole six.”

“makin' money?”

“oh, some days the gold washes out good in the pan, and others it's that fine it'll float off without settlin'.”

“so hank ain't huntin' to-day?”

“huntin'! we left him layin' out in that clump o'brush below their cabin. been drinkin' all night.”

the virginian broke off a piece of the hoodoo mud-rock from the weird eroded pillar that we stood beside. he threw it into a bank of last year's snow. we all watched it as if it were important. up through the mountain silence pierced the long quivering whistle of a bull-elk. it was like an unearthly singer practising an unearthly scale.

“first time she heard that,” said mclean, “she was scared.”

“nothin' maybe to resemble it in austria,” said the virginian.

“that's so,” said mclean. “that's so, you bet! nothin' just like hank over there, neither.”

“well, flesh is mostly flesh in all lands, i reckon,” said the virginian. “i expect yu' can be drunk and disorderly in every language. but an austrian hank would be liable to respect her crucifix.”

“that's so!”

“he ain't made her quit it yet?”

“not him. but he's got meaner.”

“drunk this mawnin', yu' say?”

“that's his most harmless condition now.”

“nobody's in camp but them two? her and him alone?”

“oh, he dassent touch her.”

“who did he tell that to?”

“oh, the camp is backin' her. the camp has explained that to him several times, you bet! and what's more, she has got the upper hand of him herself. she has him beat.”

“how beat?”

“she has downed him with her eye. just by endurin' him peacefully; and with her eye. i've saw it. things changed some after yu' pulled out. we had a good crowd still, and it was pleasant, and not too lively nor yet too slow. and willomene, she come more among us. she'd not stay shut in-doors, like she done at first. i'd have like to've showed her how to punish hank.”

“afteh she had downed yu' with her eye?” inquired the virginian.

young mclean reddened, and threw a furtive look upon me, the stranger, the outsider. “oh, well,” he said, “i done nothing onusual. but that's all different now. all of us likes her and respects her, and makes allowances for her bein' dutch. yu' can't help but respect her. and she shows she knows.”

“i reckon maybe she knows how to deal with hank,” said the virginian.

“shucks!” said mclean, scornfully. “and her so big and him so puny! she'd ought to lift him off the earth with one arm and lam him with a baste or two with the other, and he'd improve.”

“maybe that's why she don't,” mused the virginian, slowly; “because she is so big. big in the spirit, i mean. she'd not stoop to his level. don't yu' see she is kind o' way up above him and camp and everything—just her and her crucifix?”

“her and her crucifix!” repeated young lin mclean, staring at this interpretation, which was beyond his lively understanding. “her and her crucifix. turruble lonesome company! well, them are things yu' don't know about. i kind o' laughed myself the first time i seen her at it. hank, he says to me soft, 'come here, lin,' and i peeped in where she was a-prayin'. she seen us two, but she didn't quit. so i quit, and hank came with me, sayin' tough words about it. yes, them are things yu' sure don't know about. what's the matter with you camping with us boys tonight?”

we had been going to visit them the next day. we made it to-day, instead. and mr. mclean helped us with our packs, and we carried our welcome in the shape of elk meat. so we turned our faces down the grass-topped mountains towards galena creek. once, far through an open gap away below us, we sighted the cabin with the help of our field-glasses.

“pity we can't make out hank sleepin' in that brush,” said mclean.

“he has probably gone into the cabin by now,” said i.

“not him! he prefers the brush all day when he's that drunk, you bet!”

“afraid of her?”

“well—oneasy in her presence. not that she's liable to be in there now. she don't stay inside nowadays so much. she's been comin' round the ditch, silent-like but friendly. and she'll watch us workin' for a spell, and then she's apt to move off alone into the woods, singin' them dutch songs of hern that ain't got no toon. i've met her walkin' that way, tall and earnest, lots of times. but she don't want your company, though she'll patch your overalls and give yu' lunch always. nor she won't take pay.”

thus we proceeded down from the open summits into the close pines; and while we made our way among the cross-timber and over the little streams, mclean told us of various days and nights at the camp, and how hank had come to venting his cowardice upon his wife's faith.

“why, he informed her one day when he was goin' take his dust to town, that if he come back and found that thing in the house, he'd do it up for her. 'so yu' better pack off your wooden dummy somewheres,' says he. and she just looked at him kind o' stone-like and solemn. for she don't care for his words no more.

“and while he was away she'd have us all in to supper up at the shack, and look at us eatin' while she'd walk around puttin' grub on your plate. day time she'd come around the ditch, watchin' for a while, and move off slow, singin' her dutch songs. and when hank comes back from spendin' his dust, he sees the crucifix same as always, and he says, 'didn't i tell yu' to take that down?' 'you did,' says willomene, lookin' at him very quiet. and he quit.

“and honey wiggin says to him, 'hank, leave her alone.' and hank, bein' all trembly from spreein' in town, he says, 'you're all agin me!' like as if he were a baby.”

“i should think you would run him out of camp,” said i.

“well, we've studied over that some,” mclean answered. “but what's to be done with willomene?”

i did not know. none of us seemed to know.

“the boys got together night before last,” continued mclean, “and after holdin' a unanimous meetin', we visited her and spoke to her about goin' back to her home. she was slow in corrallin' our idea on account of her bein' no english scholar. but when she did, after three of us takin' their turn at puttin' the proposition to her, she would not accept any of our dust. and though she started to thank us the handsomest she knowed how, it seemed to grieve her, for she cried. so we thought we'd better get out. she's tried to tell us the name of her home, but yu' can't pronounce such outlandishness.”

as we went down the mountains, we talked of other things, but always came back to this; and we were turning it over still when the sun had departed from the narrow cleft that we were following, and shone only on the distant grassy tops which rose round us into an upper world of light.

“we'll all soon have to move out of this camp, anyway,” said mclean, unstrapping his coat from his saddle and drawing it on. “it gets chill now in the afternoons. d' yu' see the quakin'-asps all turned yello', and the leaves keeps fallin' without no wind to blow 'em down? we're liable to get snowed in on short notice in this mountain country. if the water goes to freeze on us we'll have to quit workin'. there's camp.”

we had rounded a corner, and once more sighted the cabin. i suppose it may have been still half a mile away, upon the further side of a ravine into which our little valley opened. but field-glasses were not needed now to make out the cabin clearly, windows and door. smoke rose from it; for supper-time was nearing, and we stopped to survey the scene. as we were looking, another hunter joined us, coming from the deep woods to the edge of the pines where we were standing. this was honey wiggin. he had killed a deer, and he surmised that all the boys would be back soon. others had met luck besides himself; he had left one dressing an elk over the next ridge. nobody seemed to have got in yet, from appearances. didn't the camp look lonesome?

“there's somebody, though,” said mclean.

the virginian took the glasses. “i reckon—yes, that's hank. the cold has woke him up, and he's comin' in out o' the brush.”

each of us took the glasses in turn; and i watched the figure go up the hill to the door of the cabin. it seemed to pause and diverge to the window. at the window it stood still, head bent, looking in. then it returned quickly to the door. it was too far to discern, even through the glasses, what the figure was doing. whether the door was locked, whether he was knocking or fumbling with a key, or whether he spoke through the door to the person within—i cannot tell what it was that came through the glasses straight to my nerves, so that i jumped at a sudden sound; and it was only the distant shrill call of an elk. i was handing the glasses to the virginian for him to see when the figure opened the door and disappeared in the dark interior. as i watched the square of darkness which the door's opening made, something seemed to happen there—or else it was a spark, a flash, in my own straining eyes.

but at that same instant the virginian dashed forward upon his horse, leaving the glasses in my hand. and with the contagion of his act the rest of us followed him, leaving the pack animals to follow us as they should choose.

“look!” cried mclean. “he's not shot her.”

i saw the tall figure of a woman rush out of the door and pass quickly round the house.

“he's missed her!” cried mclean, again. “she's savin' herself.”

but the man's figure did not appear in pursuit. instead of this, the woman returned as quickly as she had gone, and entered the dark interior.

“she had something,” said wiggin. “what would that be?”

“maybe it's all right, after all,” said mclean. “she went out to get wood.”

the rough steepness of our trail had brought us down to a walk, and as we continued to press forward at this pace as fast as we could, we compared a few notes. mclean did not think he saw any flash. wiggin thought that he had heard a sound, but it was at the moment when the virginian's horse had noisily started away.

our trail had now taken us down where we could no longer look across and see the cabin. and the half-mile proved a long one over this ground. at length we reached and crossed the rocky ford, overtaking the virginian there.

“these hawsses,” said he, “are played out. we'll climb up to camp afoot. and just keep behind me for the present.”

we obeyed our natural leader, and made ready for whatever we might be going into. we passed up the steep bank and came again in sight of the door. it was still wide open. we stood, and felt a sort of silence which the approach of two new-comers could not break. they joined us. they had been coming home from hunting, and had plainly heard a shot here. we stood for a moment more after learning this, and then one of the men called out the names of hank and willomene. again we—or i at least—felt that same silence, which to my disturbed imagination seemed to be rising round us as mists rise from water.

“there's nobody in there,” stated the virginian. “nobody that's alive,” he added. and he crossed the cabin and walked into the door.

though he made no gesture, i saw astonishment pass through his body, as he stopped still; and all of us came after him. there hung the crucifix, with a round hole through the middle of it. one of the men went to it and took it down; and behind it, sunk in the log, was the bullet. the cabin was but a single room, and every object that it contained could be seen at a glance; nor was there hiding-room for anything. on the floor lay the axe from the wood-pile; but i will not tell of its appearance. so he had shot her crucifix, her rock of ages, the thing which enabled her to bear her life, and that lifted her above life; and she—but there was the axe to show what she had done then. was this cabin really empty? i looked more slowly about, half dreading to find that i had overlooked something. but it was as the virginian had said; nobody was there.

as we were wondering, there was a noise above our heads, and i was not the only one who started and stared. it was the parrot; and we stood away in a circle, looking up at his cage. crouching flat on the floor of the cage, his wings huddled tight to his body, he was swinging his head from side to side; and when he saw that we watched him, he began a low croaking and monotonous utterance, which never changed, but remained rapid and continuous. i heard mclean whisper to the virginian, “you bet he knows.”

the virginian stepped to the door, and then he bent to the gravel and beckoned us to come and see. among the recent footprints at the threshold the man's boot-heel was plain, as well as the woman's broad tread. but while the man's steps led into the cabin, they did not lead away from it. we tracked his course just as we had seen it through the glasses: up the hill from the brush to the window, and then to the door. but he had never walked out again. yet in the cabin he was not; we tore up the half-floor that it had. there was no use to dig in the earth. and all the while that we were at this search the parrot remained crouched in the bottom of his cage, his black eye fixed upon our movements.

“she has carried him,” said the virginian. “we must follow up willomene.”

the latest heavy set of footprints led us from the door along the ditch, where they sank deep in the softer soil; then they turned off sharply into the mountains.

“this is the cut-off trail,” said mclean to me. “the same he brought her in by.”

the tracks were very clear, and evidently had been made by a person moving slowly. whatever theories our various minds were now shaping, no one spoke a word to his neighbor, but we went along with a hush over us.

after some walking, wiggin suddenly stopped and pointed.

we had come to the edge of the timber, where a narrow black canyon began, and ahead of us the trail drew near a slanting ledge, where the footing was of small loose stones. i recognized the odor, the volcanic whiff, that so often prowls and meets one in the lonely woods of that region, but at first i failed to make out what had set us all running.

“is he looking down into the hole himself?” some one asked; and then i did see a figure, the figure i had looked at through the glasses, leaning strangely over the edge of pitchstone canyon, as if indeed he was peering to watch what might be in the bottom.

we came near. but those eyes were sightless, and in the skull the story of the axe was carved. by a piece of his clothing he was hooked in the twisted roots of a dead tree, and hung there at the extreme verge. i went to look over, and lin mclean caught me as i staggered at the sight i saw. he would have lost his own foothold in saving me had not one of the others held him from above.

she was there below; hank's woman, brought from austria to the new world. the vision of that brown bundle lying in the water will never leave me, i think. she had carried the body to this point; but had she intended this end? or was some part of it an accident? had she meant to take him with her? had she meant to stay behind herself? no word came from these dead to answer us. but as we stood speaking there, a giant puff of breath rose up to us between the black walls.

“there's that fluffy sigh i told yu' about,” said the virginian.

“he's talkin' to her! i tell yu' he's talkin' to her!” burst out mclean, suddenly, in such a voice that we stared as he pointed at the man in the tree. “see him lean over! he's sayin', 'i have yu' beat after all.'” and mclean fell to whimpering.

wiggin took the boy's arm kindly and walked him along the trail. he did not seem twenty yet. life had not shown this side of itself to him so plainly before.

“let's get out of here,” said the virginian.

it seemed one more pitiful straw that the lonely bundle should be left in such a vault of doom, with no last touches of care from its fellow-beings, and no heap of kind earth to hide it. but whether the place is deadly or not, man dares not venture into it. so they took hank from the tree that night, and early next morning they buried him near camp on the top of a little mound.

but the thought of willomene lying in pitchstone canyon had kept sleep from me through that whole night, nor did i wish to attend hank's burial. i rose very early, while the sunshine had still a long way to come down to us from the mountain-tops, and i walked back along the cut-off trail. i was moved to look once more upon that frightful place. and as i came to the edge of the timber, there was the virginian. he did not expect any one. he had set up the crucifix as near the dead tree as it could be firmly planted.

“it belongs to her, anyway,” he explained.

some lines of verse came into my memory, and with a change or two i wrote them as deep as i could with my pencil upon a small board that he smoothed for me.

“call for the robin redbreast and the wren, since o'er shady groves they hover, and with flowers and leaves do cover the friendless bodies of unburied men. call to this funeral dole the ant, the field-mouse, and the mole to rear her hillocks that shall keep her warm.

“that kind o' quaint language reminds me of a play i seen onced in saynt paul,” said the virginian. “about young prince henry.”

i told him that another poet was the author.

“they are both good writers,” said the virginian. and as he was finishing the monument that we had made, young lin mclean joined us. he was a little ashamed of the feelings that he had shown yesterday, a little anxious to cover those feelings with brass.

“well,” he said, taking an offish, man-of-the-world tone, “all this fuss just because a woman believed in god.”

“you have put it down wrong,” said the virginian; “it's just because a man didn't.”