IT WAS the first time Tom had ever looked upon a man who had met a violent death, and the sight impressed him deeply.

The two men were fairly well dressed, apparently between thirty and forty years of age, not unlike the average emigrant of those days, who left a comfortable home in the East to seek his fortune in the far West.

“How long since this happened, doctor?” asked Peter Brush, soberly.

He naturally deferred in this matter to the superior judgment of a physician.

Dr. Lycurgus Spooner dismounted from his horse and examined the unfortunate victims of Indian barbarity with a professional eye.

“Not many hours,” he answered, briefly.

“Then the plaguy redskins are not far away?”

“Probably not,” answered the doctor. “In fact, only a few miles back I fell in with a party who had a narrow escape from the red rascals.”

“I wonder we did not meet them.”

“They took a more northerly course than you are doing.”

“But you met them?”

“I struck to the south after meeting them, partly because I thought in that way I should get further away from the Indians. It seems, however, from this sad sight, that the red devils have been in this neighborhood.”

“What shall we do?” queried Brush, doubtfully. “I don’t care to meet them, nor Tom here I reckon.”

“We may as well push on, but it will be best to keep a good lookout on all sides.”

“Trust me for that. I’ve got a good pair of eyes, and I won’t run afoul of them if I can help it.”

“Have you any objection to my company?” asked Dr. Spooner.

“Not a mite. I shall be glad to have you hitch horses with our’n. Can you fight?”

“I have done it before now.”

“Then, if we are attacked, you will stand by us?”

“You may rely upon me.”

“Then you are welcome. By the way, doctor, I ain’t curious, that is, not uncommon curious, but I do wonder why you, a doctor, are roamin’ round in these diggin’s?”

“You think I would be better off attending my patients at home, I suppose?”

“Just so.”

“But suppose the choice lies between a grave in the East, and a wandering life of privation in the West, what do you say, then?”

“Who wanted to kill you at the East?” asked Peter Brush, bluntly.

“Consumption, my friend. I inherit a tendency to that fatal disease. My mother died of it. Her mother died of it, and several other relations have in turn fallen victims to the scourge of the Atlantic Coast. Well, when I found the seeds ripening in my own system, and nature’s warning becoming only too plain, I took the hint. I knew there was only one course to take. I must abandon the East, and my flourishing practice, must give up furnace-heated houses, and live out of doors far away from the fatal east winds. It was a great sacrifice, for I was a successful physician, and I liked the life of towns, and the culture and advantages of Eastern civilization, but life was precious, and I did not hesitate.”

“How long ago was that, doctor?” asked Mr. Brush.

“Six years ago. I went across the plains to California. There I made some money and returned, but I could not stay long, for my old symptoms began to come back. I resumed my wanderings, and have spent more or less of the time since on the plains.”

“And how’s your health?”

“There’s a good deal of life in me yet, though I don’t look rugged.”

Indeed the doctor, with his slim, hollow cheeks, looked far from robust, but he was embrowned by exposure to the elements, and was tough and wiry, and as Mr. Brush found out, he had a good deal of endurance.

“You don’t look like a picter of health,” said Mr. Brush.

“No; but that’s partly because I am constitutionally thin. Our family doesn’t gain flesh easily. I am well, and my appetite is always good, sometimes inconveniently good, for I am often so situated that I can’t gratify it.” “I’ve got a healthy appetite myself,” remarked Peter Brush.

“I’m not backward that way either,” said Tom.

“Does your horse come of a consumptive family, too, doctor?” asked Brush, slyly, as his eye took in the bony skeleton on which Dr. Lycurgus B. Spooner was riding.

“In one sense, yes. He can consume as large an amount of hay and oats as any of his race. But, my friends, before we leave this place let us pay the last rites to the memory of these poor fellows who have been cut off in the midst of health and life by the savages.”

“I say amen to that with all my heart, and Tom will help, I know.”

“Yes,” said Tom, soberly, while the thought could not help rising that before long some stranger might be called upon to do the same service for him.

A hole was dug close to where the bodies lay, and the two victims were deposited therein with reverent care. No clew could be found to their identity. There were no letters in their pockets, and they were buried by those who knew not their names.

“I’d like to kill a few of the wretches that did this foul deed!” said Mr. Brush. “If I were going to be killed, I’d rather meet my fate at the hands of a white man than to be cut down by an ignorant savage.”

“I can’t say it would make much difference to me,” said Dr. Spooner, philosophically. “Death is death, whether a white man kills you, or a red man.”

“I would rather be killed by my equal than by a savage, who is only a two-legged brute,” persisted Peter Brush. “I hope the choice won’t be forced upon any of us,” said the doctor. “At any rate, I prefer not to speculate upon such a fate as probable, though it may be possible.”

“You’ve got the advantage of us, Doctor. You have no scalp to lose.”

“No, but I set some value by my head, though it may be scalpless.”

“They didn’t take your horse’s scalp, Dr. Spooner?”

“No. It is some advantage to be a horse. This poor beast, miserable as he looks, has twice saved me from capture by the redskins. Haven’t you, Bony?”

“A very appropriate name!” laughed Brush.

“It is short for Bonaparte. Still it is appropriate, as you say. He can get over the ground pretty fast, if there is need of it. And now, my men, what is your destination? Are you going to California?”

“Yes,” answered Peter Brush, “such is our intention.”

“In search of fortune, I presume?”

“Yes, but not wholly,” and Peter Brush told the doctor of the leading object of our young hero, Tom.

“I have a mind to go with you,” said Lycurgus. “I am wandering rather aimlessly just now. I might be able to help your young friend.”

“Then keep along with us, the more the merrier,” said Brush, cordially. “What do you say, Tom?”

“I hope the doctor will come with us.”

“Then I will. Here is my hand on it.”

Neither Tom nor Brush foresaw how fortunate for them was Dr. Spooner’s determination.