Collins, and his partner, Brill, were at heart as tender as they were brave.

They reasoned that Mr. Willett should know the news the messenger brought back from Gold Cave Camp, yet neither felt like conveying it to the unhappy man.

"Somebody's got to tell him," said Brill, to his partner, "and as you've got the best gift of gab, Collins, I reckon you're the feller to do it."

"If it comes down whar I've got to speak my mind and tell a sneakin' feller jest what I think of him," replied Collins, "I ain't slow, and I find I'm flush of words 'bout that time, but tellin' a man his son's dead, and that that 'ar paper he sent for to save his own life, ain't agoin to be perduced, why, that's an entirely different matter, and I'd a sight rather contract out the job to some chap as don't mind sich things."

"See har, pard, I've got an idear."

"Let's have it," said Collins, much relieved.

"I think we'd better do this kinder by slow degrees like. What do you say?"

"Why, I say, Brill, ole feller, I don't catch on to the drift of your ore bed," said Collins.

"I mean through Hank Tims."

"What about him?"

"We must get him to one side, kinder."

"And what then?"

"Why then we must up and tell him the hull story."

"I see yer pint, Brill."

"And then," continued Brill, "he can give it to Mr. Willett, and that'll kinder let us out of the scrape."

In token of his approval of this very excellent plan, Collins shook hands with his partner, and then Hank Tims was called outside of the dugout.

The partners were still in doubt as to which of them should tell the story, and noticing that they stood looking at each other Hank asked:

"Is there any fresh trouble up, pards?"

"Wa'al, yes, kinder," said Collins, taking upon himself the painful duties of spokesman.

"Let's have it," said Hank, stoutly. "Neither me nor Mr. Willett is skeered to hear the worst."

"Jest so," said Collins, "and so we thought we'd better give you the news and let you break it to him."

"What news?" asked Hank.

"Why the news that's come from Gold Cave Camp."

"Wa'al, let's have it."

"You know, Hank, we sent a messenger to Gold Cave Camp when we found the storm was onto us, and Mr. Willett's son hadn't showed up with that paper."

"Yes, I heard of that, Collins."

"Wa'al, the man's back——"

"And the boy—Sam Willett?" cried Hank.

"Couldn't be found," stammered Collins.

"Why not?"

"He wasn't thar."

"No," added Brill, "he wasn't no whar in sight."

"And the other folks, the black boy, the Chinee and the young Ute, Ulna, what came here with me an Mr. Willett and went back again when we was took prizners?"

"No one knows; they wasn't in sight."

"Drownded out!" gasped Hank.

"No, the folks think they tried to git away by swimmin' or making a raft," said Collins.

"They might as well try to fly. Ah, this is bad news; mighty bad news. I'd rather die mysel', and I know Mr. Willett would rather die a thousand times over than to lose that boy. Did you ever see young Sam Willett, gents?"

The partners shook their heads and said they never had seen young Sam Willett.

"Wa'al," continued Hank, with a sob in his voice, "he wasn't what you and me mout think a full-growed man, but never a braver nor a handsomer lad ever crossed them Sierras off thar to the east. He was a gentleman, young Sam was, from the ground up; he couldn't think anything mean, much less do it. Ah, why should men like you, and me, and others be left and him be took? I don't see how I can bring mysel' to tell his father, for he was all Mr. Willett had left, and he won't keer any more for life when he hears this."

"It's mighty tough on the old man," coughed Brill, "not to mention his other troubles; but as he's got to know it sooner or later, my pard and me thought you'd better tell him."

"Wa'al, if I must I 'spose I must; but I tell you what, boys, I'd jest as soon you'd order me out to be shot. In fact I'd a heap sight rather be shot, if I was only sure that my dyin' would bring back young Sam Willett to life."

Brushing his sleeve across his eyes, Hank turned away to hide his feelings, and the partners went silently back to the cluster of tents and buildings that was known as "the camp."

We have already seen something of the love that existed between Mr. Willett and his son.

Apart from the affection natural to their relationship, these two were still more strongly attached to each other by the fact that they were alone in the world and the exclusive object of each other's most profound affections.

We shall not attempt to describe the manner in which Hank Tims communicated the news to the already much afflicted father, but it should be said that he acquitted himself with a tenderness hardly to be expected from one of his rough exterior and rude life.

There are blows so crushing to the human heart that they fall without being followed by a sign of pain or a cry of agony.

The sting of a bee will call out a shout from the strongest man, but the bullet that taps the fountain of life is received with ashy but silent lips.

All the color left Mr. Willett's face, and he fell back on the blankets on which he had been sitting.

He looked as if he were dying, and Hank, to redress the effects of the blow he had been forced to deal, sprang forward, and putting his arms about Mr. Willett's shoulder, he said, though he had not the slightest faith in his own words:

"Thar ain't no doubt in my mind but the boys made a raft. Sam was sharp, and thar was lots of timber to do it."

"But that would only be going to death," said Mr. Willett faintly and slowly.

"Oh, not by a long odds. Thar's lots and lots of places lower down whar they might get out easy. Now, let's jest have patience; thar ain't nothin' like a good stock of patience. Why, it wouldn't s'prise me not a bit if I was to see Sam and the hull caboodle of 'em walk into the door of this dugout this blessed minute," and Hank fixed his eyes steadily on the opening, as if he were quite prepared for this phenomenon.

Leaving Hank Tims to fan the faint ray of hope he had kindled in the afflicted father's heart, let us give a few minutes to reporting the conduct of the two men who were the authors of all this trouble.

There were some very bad men at Hurley's Gulch, as there are bad men in any gathering the world over, but in justice it should be said that a majority aimed to do as near right as they knew how.

Men's ideas of right and wrong vary with their training and their natural abilities to weigh evidence and comprehend truth. But even those men who are rude in their bearing, or even vicious in their lives, have their hearts touched by a death that brings great sorrow to some fond, loving heart.

So when the people at Hurley's Gulch began to think over Mr. Willett's loss, they forgot for the time the grave offence with which he was charged, and expressed themselves as very sorry for the death of his boy.

This change of feeling did not escape the ever wide-awake observation of Frank Shirley.

He was a pretty good judge of human nature, and so he thought it wiser not to say anything at this time. Indeed, he played his part so well that he expressed to the crowd, whom he kept attached to him by frequent treating, that he was very sorry for young Sam Willett's loss.

"He was a cousin of mine," sighed Shirley, "and not a bit like his father."

How could the people know that the death of Sam Willett was the one object that brought Shirley to this land, and how could they know that the life of the noble youth was the one thing that stood between this fellow and a large fortune.

"I tell you, Mr. Shirley," said Badger to his employer the day after the reception of the news from Gold Cave Camp, "you're a keen one. Oh, you ken play it fine—finer'n any one I ever seed."

"Do you think so, Badger?" said Shirley, flattered by this compliment to his talent for crime.

"Yes, I do. In a day or two the boys'll forgit all about the death of young Willett. Then you ken swing in on the murder of Tom Edwards again, and make them do jest as you please."

"Well, I'll try," replied the jubilant Shirley.