The two log cabins stood on the grassy slopes of opposite mountains, the dark piÑons forming a picturesque background; a babbling brook ran between the two, a boundary line of molten silver.

Sam Nesterwood’s door faced north, and Phil Boyd’s door looked south; while they were building the cabins Phil remarked that it looked so much more sociable that way.

When Phil came out in the morning to plunge his wind-browned face into the tin wash basin, filled with cold water from the stream below, he usually saw Sam doing the same; or perhaps, taking the grimy towel off the wooden peg just outside the door, with which he scrubbed his face, and even the tiny bald spot on the top of his head, to a shiny red.

Phil came out as usual one still October morning; the cottonwoods were just turning a soft golden color—fairy gold—in a setting of dark green and gray—autumn’s gorgeous mosaic.

A chipmunk darted saucily by, and just beyond reach sat up chattering a comical defiance; a lone bluebell nodded in the wind, swaying from side to side seeking its vanished companions; blood-red leaves peeped out from under dry grasses, or decked the sides of a gray bowlder.

Phil looked cheerfully around; he snapped his fingers at the saucy squirrel, and laughed at the blinking, black eyes; looking across at the opposite cabin he bawled, “Hello, Sam!”

“Hello yourself!” retorted Sam. This had been the morning salutation, never varied, though all the summer months. Each evening after their day’s work they met at one or the other cabin to compare rock; to talk over a lucky strike, or the mishap of a mutual acquaintance, not that much sympathy was expended or needed.

“Jim’s claim has petered out; he’s out about six months’ work, and all his money.”

“You don’t say! Oh, well, Jim won’t stay broke very long; he’s a hustler.” It was not from want of sympathy, but because of a confidence begotten of this hard life, much as the sparrow might argue, “having never wanted for food, I shall be always fed.”

Later in the morning Phil climbed the steep trail which led to his claim high upon the mountain side. The days were perceptibly growing shorter, and it was quite dark when he came down this October evening. Halfway down the trail he thought he heard a groan.

His halting foot dislodged a stone, and sent it crashing down the mountain side; the rushing sound of a night hawk overhead; the melancholy hoot of an owl in the piÑons; the bark of a coyote in the distance, all seemed but to accentuate the silence.

As I have said, night had fallen, coming suddenly, as it ever does in the mountains; no dewy, tender twilight as in lower altitudes; the sun hanging low in the western sky seems phantasm-like to drop behind the distant peaks; a chill wind whistles through the piÑons like a softly sung dirge; darkness settles down like a pall—and it is night.

Phil thought that he must be mistaken, and again started on his homeward way; the groaning was repeated almost at his very feet.

He searched vainly, but could find no person, nothing to account for the sound.

Dead silence had fallen again. Phil shivered, “This wind is mighty cold!” he muttered, his hand shaking, his teeth inclined to chatter. He took off his hat to wipe the perspiration from his brow, which had gathered in great drops notwithstanding the chill wind; he cast a furtive glance behind him; it was all so terribly uncanny. “Oh! O—h!” came again at his very feet; he gave a frightened start, and an involuntary ejaculation: “Great God!” then gathered himself together and renewed his search, this time rewarded by finding Sam lying under the shelter of a rock badly wounded.

It was a hard task to carry him down that steep trail, and Phil said, pityingly, many times, “It’s awful rough, pard, but there’s no help for it.”

He carried him into the cabin, and laying him on his bed, built a fire, and with a touch gentle as that of a woman bathed and dressed his wound.

He found that a bullet had plowed a ragged furrow down his leg, and shattered the smaller bone halfway between the knee and the ankle.

Phil had a little knowledge of surgery; these nomads of the hills are often far from surgical aid, and of a necessity attain a degree of skill in such matters. Having made his patient as comfortable as possible, Phil lay down on the floor, rolled in a single blanket, to rest until morning.

The autumn days crept by in drowsy calm—a stillness deeper and more sad than in lower altitudes; the whistle of the late bird as he calls to his mate to hasten their migration is unheard here; the shrill notes of the cicada, which fills the autumn days in the moist, odorous woods is unknown in these barren heights; the dry, stubbly bunch grass, the gray, dusty sage brush harbors no insect life save an occasional lonely cricket, and even these are strangely silent. No birds flit from tree to tree save the magpies, with their gorgeous black and white plumage, and their harsh discordant cries, and these are only seen along the streams. An occasional hawk sails above the piÑons in graceful curves, or darts downward like an arrow shot from a bow. All else is silent and lifeless.

The sun lies white and brilliant over all; the long shadows lie on the gray ground as though painted there; the tiny streams hurry between their rocky banks, as though in haste to get away from a too cloudless sky.

Long stretches of hills rise and fall away, dry, desolate and gray; a weird loneliness and beauty lies over all—the grandeur of desolation.

The leaves had fluttered down to the bare earth, and a few flakes of snow had been tossed about by the nipping wind, ere Sam Nesterwood was able to tell the story of his accident. He was riding up the trail to a claim he thought of relocating; he considered the broncho he rode “all right,” but some reminiscence of his forefathers, some prompting of the wild blood which is never wholly subdued, must have possessed the animal, for without the slightest warning, head down, back arched like an angry cat, he bucked outrageously.

Sam was too good a rider to be easily thrown, but the unexpected movement threw his pistol from his belt; it struck the pommel of the saddle, discharging its contents into his leg, and although it felt as though red-hot iron tore through the flesh, he still retained his seat; then he must have fainted, for he knew no more until near nightfall. When consciousness returned he was lying on the ground; he felt chilled through, and his limb was so stiff and sore that he could scarcely move. He sought to get nearer to a large rock for shelter from the cold wind; it had by this time grown quite dusk, and beneath the rock was so dark that he could not see, thus he rolled into the hole beneath, where Phil found him.

During all the time of Sam’s illness, Phil each day climbed the rugged trail to work for a neighboring miner, letting his own assessment work wait, while he earned the money to pay doctor’s bills, buy medicines, supply Sam with books to read, and delicacies to tempt his appetite. Phil denied himself all but the barest subsistence. Sam smoked cigars, read books, and ate the most expensive delicacies, as though such things were no more than his right.

Thus affairs went on until near the beginning of February. Sam was practically well, but he made no effort to get about.

Phil had bought a great easy-chair for him in the first stages of his convalescence, and he sat in the coziest corner, and piled the fireplace high with wood, although Phil had to “snake” it more than half a mile down the steep mountain side.

It was a bitter night; the wind blew bleak over the hills, driving the little snow that had fallen before it, so many needle like points, which left the face stinging with pain. Just at nightfall it had grown warmer, and the scudding clouds began to drop their fleecy burden, a fairy mantle over all the rugged hills.

Phil came home covered with snow, his long mustache ridiculously lengthened by icicles, his eyebrows white as those of Father Time.

He set his lunch pail down moodily, and shook himself much as a spaniel shakes the water from his shaggy coat; he threw himself on a bench before the fire with a tired sigh; and rested his elbows on his knees, his chin dropped in his upturned palms.

Sam shivered as some of the flying particles of snow struck him.

“Can’t you be a little more careful; you’ll give me my death of cold yet!” he grumbled.

“I did not intend to wet you,” answered Philip very gently, not changing his position.

“You must be down in the dumps! What is the matter with you?” said Sam irritably.

This habit of half-grumbling and fault-finding had become so common with Sam that Phil made no reply. After a minute’s silence, he began again:

“Aren’t we going to have any supper to-night? It’s most infernal monotonous sitting here alone all day with nothing to read, and not even a square meal.”

Phil arose wearily, and began laying the cloth on the table; soon the bacon was sizzling merrily, the teakettle bumping the lid up and down for very joy, and the fragrance of coffee filled the room.

Phil took from the box nailed against the wall a small dish of peaches, a couple of slices of cake, and a little cheese, which he put beside Sam’s plate.

“Supper is ready,” said he gravely.

Sam arose lazily, and Phil wheeled his easy-chair up to the table; then poured out the coffee, and drew up his own rough bench. He offered a slice of the bacon to Sam, before helping himself.

“No,” said Sam testily, “I’m tired of bacon. I hate the very smell of it. I do wish I could have something decent to eat!”

Phil made no reply, but ate his bread and bacon, and drank his coffee in silence. Sam leaned back in his chair, his head resting on the cushion, and looked at Phil from under half-closed eyelids. “Your countenance is an appetizer! You are about as cheerful as a tombstone!” a curious anxiety underlying his sneering tone.

As Phil did not reply, he continued: “Can’t you open your clam shell, and spit out your grievance? I suppose I have offended your saintship in some way, ’though what I’ve done except to stay all alone and put up with all sorts of discomforts is more than I know,” the questioning tone in the first part of his speech shading off into a sullen grumbling toward the end.

Phil lifted his gloomy face.

“I have given you no reason for that kind of talk; I can’t grin very much when some galoot has jumped my claim,” he replied slowly.

“You don’t say! Who the deuce——”

“The name marked on the new stake is Jim Redmond, but that don’t count much,” answered Phil despondently.

“I suppose you think I’d be sneak enough to do it,” retorted Sam, the strange, questioning look deepening in his eyes.

“Oh, come off, Sam! What is the use of talking that kind of stuff? I’m not quite so suspicious as that; why, you haven’t been up the trail in months,” answered Phil, with a kindly look.

“No; and my name is not Jim Redmond; but you ought to have done your assessment work; you can’t very well blame him, whoever he may be.”

“No; p’raps not,” said Phil slowly, and it seemed somewhat doubtingly; then he added: “What makes me sore is that it was looking so good. Well, there’s no use in wearing mourning, I suppose;” and he tried to laugh cheerfully. After supper, notwithstanding the inclemency of the night Phil trudged patiently the long six miles into town, that Sam might have the coveted books, and a tender steak for his breakfast.

Sam evinced no desire to return to his own cabin; on the contrary he said, in his peculiarly soft tones, “I guess we’d better finish the winter together, hadn’t we, Phil? I’m not very strong yet, and one fire will do for both; of course I’ll put up my share of the grub.”

“Oh, that’s all right; I’m glad of your company,” replied Phil.

Sam must have considered his company a sufficient compensation, for he contributed nothing toward the expense of living; he took the most and the best of everything; the choicest of the food; the only chair; the warmest corner of the fireplace; and the only good bed. If he ever saw Phil’s self denial, he made no sign. If Phil ever thought him selfish, he did not show it; that which he gave he gave royally.

One evening Phil came in from work; it was bitter cold; the stars snapped and twinkled; the frost showed a million glittering points in the white moonlight; the ground cracked like tiny pistol shots; the wind whistled shrilly, and cut like a whiplash.

Phil shook himself, and threw off his cap and coat:

“This is a scorcher and no mistake,” he stretched out his hands basking in the warmth.

Sam had hovered over the fire all day, reading. He leaned back in his chair, a tantalizing light in his eyes.

“You’ve been working the Mollie Branscome,” he asserted, rather than asked.

Phil nodded his head. Sam continued: “I say, Phil, is Mollie Branscome your sweetheart, that you named your claim after her?”

Phil colored painfully, but after a minute he replied dryly: “It must be information you’re seekin’; I wasn’t aware that it concerned anyone but myself.”

Sam laughed sneeringly.

“Awful close with your little romance!”

To Phil it was a romance; and in giving the name to his claim he but obeyed the impulse to have it ever on his lips. “Mollie,” his manner of speaking it was ever a caress.

Sam laughed, and passed the remark off as a joke.

One day Sam brought Phil a letter from his old father, asking him to come home, as he was very ill and wished to see him once more before he died. Phil turned the letter over thoughtfully, and Sam hastened to say: “I tried to get on to the horse, and he jumped sideways and dumped the whole pile of mail into the dirt; it’s an awful mess, but I couldn’t help it,” apologetically.

“Oh ’t wasn’t that! but the old man’s writing don’t look natural. I am afraid he is pretty bad.” He pulled his mustache thoughtfully for a few minutes.

“I don’t just see how I can manage it. I have just about money enough to get there, but none to return,” said he.

Sam leaned back in his chair, blowing a long cloud of smoke meditatively. Finally he said: “I had an offer for the Little Darling this morning; you go, if you want to, and I’ll make the deal, and send you a fifty; you can pay it after you come back.”

Phil’s face lit up with a pleasant smile.

“Sam, it’s awful good of you!” he exclaimed impulsively.

“Oh, I’m always willing to do a favor when I can,” nonchalantly, seeming to be utterly forgetful of all that Phil had done for him; unmindful that at this very moment he was smoking Phil’s tobacco, warming himself at Phil’s fire, and this moment contemplating the eating of the food of Phil’s providing. His manner of speaking would imply that this was but one more of many benefits of his conferring.

As Phil was leaving to go to his father, Sam said:

“I’ll take good care of everything for you.”

“All right! thanks, and good-by!” called Phil heartily.

Phil’s father was very much surprised to see him; no message had been sent; and he was well but none the less glad to see Phil.

Phil wrote to Sam at once, but as he received no reply wrote again and again.

He did not need money, as his father had given him more than enough, but he feared that some ill had befallen his friend.

As Phil left the stagecoach on his return home, three months later, he at once sought Mollie; he had received no letter from her during his absence, although he had repeatedly written. He knocked, and Mollie herself opened the door. Phil reached out his hand in glad greeting; she drew back coldly.

“Is there anything you wish, sir?” as she would address a stranger.

Phil’s face flushed hotly, then went deadly pale. He looked at her reproachfully.

“I think not,” he replied sadly, as he turned away.

With natures such as these a tragedy may occur unobserved by the bystander.

To Phil the sun seemed to have set, all looked so dark and gloomy. As he swung off over the lonely mountain trail, the gurgling water in the brook below seemed to mock him; the scent of the springing vegetation caused a feeling of irritation, his heart was so full of bitter disappointment.

Lonely and more lonely grew the way; no life save himself, he just a dark speck upon that yellow trail crawling up the mountain side. Even his panting breath seemed to disturb the dead calm, as he paused—taking off his hat—to look up to his cabin. He shaded his eyes, and looked eagerly. Only a blackened spot marked where his home—humble, but still a home—had stood. He looked higher up the side of the mountain to where the Mollie Branscome lay; he drew his breath sharply; where he had left a windlass and bucket, a frame shafthouse arose. The sharp spurt of steam rising on the fast chilling air denoted a perfectly set valve; he saw hurrying forms of men at work; he shut his teeth hard together, a fiery red spot rising in either cheek. He felt neither fatigue nor depression now; he breathed stertoriously as he toiled up the steep trail.

Sam was the first person that he met.

Phil pointed to a name above the shafthouse door: “The New Discovery.” “What does that mean?” he demanded hoarsely.

“What’s it to you?” answered Sam derisively.

Poor Phil! His blood seemed on fire. The sneer; the taunting look; it was like letting a brilliant light shine into a dark place; he knew by that ‘sixth sense,’ intuition, all the treachery of this false friend. He knew who had sent him upon a fool’s errand; he knew who had stolen his first claim, and had some accomplice mark the stake in a false name; a memory of his systematic sponging for more than half a year goaded him to madness; many, very many acts, before unconsidered, came to his mind fraught with meaning. The veins on his forehead stood out like purple cord, and he made a wild lunge at Sam. Sam turned to run; he stepped on a rolling stone and went down helplessly; he lay there glaring up at Phil, fear and vindictive hatred strangely blent in his gaze.

Phil stood over him like an avenger:

“So! You thought to rob me of this claim as you did of the other, did you?” his voice quivering hoarsely.

“You’ve got me down, now strike me!” answered Sam, his eyes glaring wildly, his teeth showing like those of a wild animal. “Yes, I did jump your claim; and I’ve got the papers to show for the Mollie Branscome; the Mollie Branscome! You thought you were awful sly, but I jumped that claim too; your letters to her put me on. She thinks you went East to marry your old love; we are going to be married to-morrow night!” he cried tauntingly; he seemed to have gone insane with rage.

As Phil listened to him the fierce anger died out of his face, and contempt took its place; but he only ejaculated:

“You contemptible cur!” as he stepped back and folded his arms.

The workmen had gathered about, and stood in silent amazement; their looks seemed to anger Sam still more, and he continued his insane taunting:

“Oh, you wanted me to take care of your things, didn’t you? I took care of them, oh, yes!” and he thrust his tongue in his cheek derisively.

He had risen to his feet by this time, and stood leaning his back against the shafthouse. Phil stood a minute without speaking, pity struggling with contempt in his heart; finally he said slowly, and without a trace of anger:

“Well! You’re slopping over pretty freely. If you burned my cabin thinking to destroy my papers, you got left; I took them with me, and you must have forgotten that they are recorded. As to the other affair which you have tangled with your dirty fingers, I think that I can straighten that out all right. You are too contemptible to whip, but I advise you to make yourself scarce.”

“I believe he did burn that cabin, because no one has ever been inside of his shack since the fire; probably he has some things there that he’d rather not have seen. I always thought that things looked mighty queer,” said big Cal Wagner.

“Let’s all quit work. I’ll not strike another stroke for the likes of ’im,” said Denny Colby.

“Say, aren’t you the fellow that took care of this skunk when he was hurt?” asked Cal.

“Yes,” tersely replied Phil.

“Well, you’d better git up and dust, you miserable apology for a man!” cried Cal, indignantly turning to Sam.

“And he made out that you had skipped the country, and that he bought the claim, so that you needn’t go dead broke. If he don’t leave it’s a necktie party we’ll be havin’!” added Denny Colby.

“Oh, let him alone, boys; he isn’t worth the rope it would take to hang him; upon my word I pity him, he is so contemptible that I don’t think he can enjoy his own company,” drawled Phil lazily.

Sam limped away unmolested, cursing wildly as far as they could hear him.

Phil turned from looking after him, and said to the men, “It makes me feel pretty sore, but I guess that he feels worse’n I do,” he added philosophically. After a few minutes he continued, “You might as well knock off for the rest of the day, I don’t suppose he will give me any trouble because he knows that I have the papers to prove my right. I’ll square whatever wages is coming to you as soon as I get things in good shape.”

A hearty grasp of the hand, and a ready acquiescence sealed the compact.

Phil swung himself down the mountain side in a much more joyous mood than when ascending.

He walked direct to Mollie’s house, and as before she opened the door; she started in surprise and anger; he did not wait for her to speak, but said in a determined tone, “You asked me this morning if there was anything that I wished, and not understanding the circumstances I said no; I have since learned some things which caused me to change my mind—Mollie, would you condemn me unheard?” reaching out both hands.

She, flushing and trembling, stood irresolute for one minute, then placed her hands in his.

“No, that would not be just; but why did you not write?”

“I did write several times, but could get no reply from you.”

“I wonder—” she commenced, but Phil cut the sentence short.

“Were you going to marry Sam, Mollie?”

“What an idea! That conceited thing!” answered Mollie indignantly.

They had entered the little parlor, and Phil caught her in his arms and said quizzically, “What about me?”

Just what Mollie answered I had best not repeat, but it seemed to be perfectly satisfactory, as he left the house an hour later, whistling as happily as a boy.

Just after dark Sam hurried into town, cursing his lameness and Phil, indiscriminately; he wanted to keep things square with Mollie, as he expressed it.

As he came near the house he observed that the little parlor was brilliantly lighted; his heart filled with exultation: “I’ll bet Mollie is expecting me! Let Phil keep his old claims; the girl is worth more than all of them; it will hurt him most to lose her, too. Of course it was all a lie about our going to be married; but I can get her all right, you bet there isn’t many women but that I could get!” with a ridiculous air of importance.

He knocked confidently, and was at once ushered into the midst of a number of guests. Coming as he did, from the darkness, the glare of the lights blinded him; but as he advanced into the room, Cal Wagner said, “We were waiting for you, sir. Please be seated.”

Turning to the group near the center of the room, he continued, “Reverend sir, this is the guest we were expecting; will you now proceed with the ceremony.”

Looking radiantly happy, Mollie and Phil took their places in front of the minister, and the solemn marriage service commenced.

Sam made a bolt for the door; but Cal’s great hand closed over his shoulder like a vise, and he was compelled to stand and see his last shred of revenge slip away from him, amid the happy smiles of those around him.

Then he crept out into the darkness, out of the ken of those who knew him, blaming everybody but himself, yet at war with himself and all the world, because he had not succeeded in ill-doing.

Phil said to his wife: “I am sorry for him; I wish he had been content to be my friend; I did like Sam.”

Of course there was not the slightest opposition to Phil’s assuming control of his own property, but his conscience troubled him because Sam had built the shafthouse: “I had much rather have paid him for it,” he remarked; but when later he learned that neither lumber nor labor were paid for, and all bought upon his credit, he had no more regrets.