TWO men had built a fire beside a boulder that half filled the narrow pass, and with their feet toward the cold ashes of this fire, still slept in the friendly shelter of the rock.

To the west the pass broadened, forming a miniature valley, where a partially dry watercourse circled about the base of the cliff; on the steep hillside above, stunted pines clung among the masses of rocks. The valley supported a scanty growth of coarse grass, and here two gaunt mules fed and shivered in the half light. Shadows filled the pass, but high above in the cloudless sky the birds sang; and long stretches of purple and gold and orange rested on the mountain side.

At last one of the sleepers rose stiffly from among his blankets and looked about him; then with a stick he searched the remains of the camp-fire until deep down in the ashes he discovered a live coal, he added some dry grass and an armful of fuel, and fanned the spark into a blaze, then he gravely took a chew of tobacco.

The builder of the fire was a lank, loose-jointed man of thirty, with a face disfigured by a ragged red beard of many days growth; his skin was sallow and his hair sun bleached.

As it had been dusk when he went into camp the night before, he now inspected his surroundings with mild incurious eyes. He seemed quite emotionless, to accept their forbidding aspect with a certain languid indifference, that was almost weariness; and yet with an inward secret satisfaction since they were as bad as he had anticipated; lastly his glance sought the ground and the figure of the sleeping man.

Then he went slowly up the pass and down into the dry bed of the stream and paused beside a muddy pool; he had been drawn thither by some consideration of personal cleanliness, but the pool did not tempt him, for he shook his head.

“No, I reckon not, it's bad enough inside,” he drawled softly; and he went back to the camp, where after making choice of what he knew to be a vulnerable spot, he gently kicked his companion.

“Get up, Jim!” he said, as the sleeper moved. “It's time we was stirring.”

Jim threw off his blankets and stood erect; he evidently had no lingering prejudice in favour of cleanliness, indeed he had gradually discarded each unessential labour, conserving himself for the hardship of the trail. He did not even go down to the stream as the other had done; he merely put on his hat, and his toilet was complete. His companion took stock of the omission.

“I notice that it ain't your day to wash,” he drawled.

“It ain't,” said the other shortly.

“I reckon it's a mortifying oversight to that pink skin of yours, Mr. Orphan. I'd rather fancy having you tuck along sweet and clean myself; but your habits is your own—”

“You bet they are.”

His friend surveyed him with a mild jocularity of mien.

“Well, they don't brag none for you, but I reckon maybe you're figuring on taking all of this heah God-forsaken country you can right along with you into California. I certainly am glad it suits you.”

Jim ignored this, and they ate their breakfast in silence.

“You ain't saying much,” observed Jim, as if this was an unwonted occurrence.

“Can't you wait until I thaw out?” demanded his friend with some asperity. “I like to froze last night; give me time; opinions will come to me right lively when the sun crawls up yonder above them rocks.”

He moved leisurely off in the direction of their mules, while Jim stowed away the blankets and cooking utensils in the packs. They were soon in the saddle, their mules limping wearily forward. They had gone half a mile when they crossed the dry bed of the stream; its general course until now had been nearly parallel with their trail.

“This must be the head waters of Flynn's Fork,” said Jim.

“I reckon Flynn was a pretty mean spirited cuss or he would never have named such a dribbling chuck hole after himself,” observed his companion. Then he added, “Perhaps he was killed by the Indians heah about and his friends did the naming; all I got to say is it was a mighty mean advantage to take of a dead man.”

“Thawed out?” inquired his companion.

“Not entirely,” and he lapsed into silence for another half mile.

They had met for the first time on the banks of the Missouri. In the party to which they had then belonged were forty wagons and over a hundred men, representing almost every state in the Union; but the cholera had broken out among them just as they were commencing their journey, and had followed them into the mountains beyond Fort Laramie. Their numbers had dwindled day by day; many died, but many more had turned back. Then their overloaded teams failed them; they had thrown away the bulk of their belongings, but still their stock gave out; for thousands of teams had been before them, and grass was scarce along the line of march. At last, these two, abandoning their wagons and taking two of the best mules remaining to them, set out alone for the land of promise.

At Fort Bridger they had fallen in with a truthful trapper who had told them of a route into Salt Lake by way of the Weber, which he had declared to be practicable for mounted men; he had further drawn them a map of the country, whose accuracy was a source of constant joy to the red-whiskered man, who had himself written in the names of the mountains and rivers.

Jim came from Illinois. All his life had been passed on the frontier, where there was still the mystery and romance of new lands into which men went and from which they sometimes returned with tales of wonder for the credulous; and Jim, a meek and silent lad, had cherished a chilling fear that the last Indian would be killed, and the last beaver trapped before he could quit his home.

He had told his companion, while under the spell of the other's frank confidence concerning himself, that his father had only recently died.

“It was him being so old and all crippled up that held me,” he had said. “Or you bet I'd a been out here long ago. Of course I knew he couldn't last forever, but when he did go, I had such a heap of trouble settling up and selling out, some times I almost wished he hadn't died at all.”

And his friend, bearing in mind this recent bereavement, usually addressed him as “Mr. Orphan.”

After they crossed the dry bed of the stream, the valley narrowed to a pass again; and the jutting rocks seemed almost to touch high above their heads.

The red-whiskered man spoke again in his soft drawl.

“Ain't this the doggondest country? And I was well fixed back yonder in old Missouri. I owned as good a farm as ever lay out doors; right on the river it was, and I was selling rotten fence rails to steamboats at cord wood prices. I certainly wish I was roosting on that old punk pile of mine right now—I do so.”

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “Seems like I've heard of that farm of yours before, maybe it was yesterday,” he said with fine sarcasm.

“Why, you dough-faced son of a gun, I bet there ain't such land in the whole State of Illinoy. Illinoy! I like to bust when I hear a man talk of Illinoy!”

“Like enough,” said Jim stolidly.

The Missourian groaned aloud. “Eight head of mules gone to thunder, and they was good mules, too; two wagons, and a whole raft of other stuff; why, man, we began to chuck away dry-goods, and grub, and lickers, and tools, from the time we crossed the Platte!”

“Well, we wasn't the only one's done it,” retorted Jim.

“No,” said the Missourian, “we wasn't. I ain't complaining, but I want this heah country to know what I think of it; for I don't reckon I'll ever pass this way again—not any!” with emphasis; then he subsided into his usual drawl. “Say, I reckon it's a whole heap nearer hell than any other section of these heah United States.”

He relapsed into silence, and they rode on without speech for another half mile; then the Missourian spoke again, sadly, plaintively.

“I was certainly doing well back yonder. I was making money hand over fist; and like a doggone fool I had to lope off out heah. I had no more gumption than that!”

“Well, this suits me,” said Jim.

“I suspicioned it did; but I allow if any one had a told me a year ago that I'd be tackling a thousand miles of God knows what, with these heah legs of mine hung over a spavined, wind-broke, saddle-galled, caterpiller of a mule, I'd a been fighting mad; but the Lord's with us, Mr. Orphan, He says you mustn't be in any thing of a sweat for riches—and we all certainly ain't. My, what a country! Nary a drop of water fit to drink; nary a stick of timber fit to burn; nary a blade of grass; but I reckon it will get some better when we strike the Mormon country. Ever know anything about the Mormons in Illinoy, Jim?”

Jim shook his head.

The Missourian continued. “I know'd 'em in Missouri before they was run out of the State. It must be a mighty nourishing belief for a man who ain't no ways industrious himself and yet likes to see things going forward, but it must be powerful harassing on the ladies. Still, I reckon it's a lot easier for a dozen ladies to support one man, than for one man to support a dozen ladies. If I was a Mormon, I allow that's the way I would look at it.” He turned to his companion, but Jim's glance was fixed ahead; he was giving no heed to what his friend was saying, but the latter was in no wise discouraged by his lack of interest. “I seen Jo Smith before he was killed; I may say I knowed him slightly.”

“Did you have a hand in that?” asked Jim, and he now displayed a languid interest, but the Missourian shook his head.

“No, you bloodthirsty cuss, and I'm mighty glad I didn't.”

By a glance Jim inquired why.

“Well, you see, there's been a right smart fatality among them that did; considerable many of them has died since. This heah Smith was a prophet; he run the whole doggone shootin' match; he done it by revelation; and no matter what he'd said before, or promised, or sworn to, if he changed his mind, all he done, was to get a new revelation; and in the end it was these heah revelations that soured his dough; a man who got his orders direct from the Lord, people found wa'n'. a good neighbour. It made him too blame arrogant, for one thing.”

They had ascended a long, rocky incline, and had gone down a steep boulder-strewn declivity; now the walls of the pass fell away and they entered a wide valley; it was crescent-shaped, and possibly fifteen miles in length, while its breadth was half that. It was without timber except for a sparse growth which could be distinguished toward the west. Both men knew there would be no water until they reached this timber, for, as they moved along, the level plain became more and more barren, while from under the feet of their mules a fine white dust arose and enveloped them.

Presently the Missourian reined in his mule, and pointed with a long forefinger to something on the ground in front of of him.

“Look heah, Mr. Orphan, what do you make of those there?”

Jim answered with a slightly nettled air.

“Wagon tracks. What did you suppose I'd make of them?”

“Yes, but they are going our way—see where that mule planted a hoof beside yonder bunch of cactus? How do you reckon they got heah? They couldn't have come up the trail we came by; you couldn't drag a wagon through there for the rocks, not to save your neck!”

“That's so!” agreed Jim. “But I reckon there's a way in below.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You can see where their trail runs off to the south.”

“I reckon that's it.” said the Missourian.

It was some hours later when the afternoon was wearing to a close, that the Missourian called his friend's attention to a low hill which rose from the perfectly level plain. As they neared it, two buzzards rose lazily from the summit of this hill; and a grey object, the size of a mongrel dog, fled down its nearest slope and skurried away toward the timber. The Missourian noticed this; nothing escaped his mild, incurious eyes.

“I wonder what's up yonder. Hello! Right smart of a crowd's been heah. How old do you reckon them signs is, Jim?” and he drew in his mule.

Jim scrutinized the ground before he answered.

“Horses this time; ain't it? Maybe they are a week old,” but he unslung the long rifle he carried attached to his saddle; seeing which the Missourian laughed.

“Now, what do you allow to use that on, Jim? Don't you see it ain't Indians? Most of these hosses had their forefeet shod. Emigrants, don't you reckon?”

He pushed back his hat, and leaned languidly forward in his saddle.

“They seem to have been doing right smart cavorting about heah, don't they? Some pretty aimless riding for folks who was going anywhere in particular—no—” slowly, “they certainly seemed pushed for time—these hosses was on the jump. Say, Jim, why do you reckon they was on the jump?” He moved forward a step or two, with his mild eyes still fixed on the ground. “Fact is, they seem to have been riding in a sort of a circle about this heah hill—”

A dark shadow slipped across the sandy plain, and the Missourian glanced up quickly. It was another buzzard; but it was winging its way toward the hill. His glance followed it—it flew straight, with large lazy flappings.

“That bird certainly knows where it's going, and it ain't wasting no time in getting there; what do you reckon's on that hill, Jim?”

Jim moved uneasily in his saddle, but he managed to say with tolerable composure.

“If you're so blame curious, why don't you go see?”

“Well, I'm doggone certain if I left it to you we'd never know.”

“We wouldn't,” the other said positively.

“Well, you hold my mule; I'm going up.” He swung himself out of the saddle, and strode off up the hill. He gained the summit, and paused there, a tall dark figure against the red of the sunset.

“Oh, Jim! Come heah!” he presently called.

“What in blazes do you expect me to do with my mule and yours?” Jim answered angrily.

“Turn them loose, they'll make for the water, it ain't more than a mile or two from heah,” advised the Missourian, with placid good nature. “Bring your gun,” he added, and then he stepped forward a pace, and Jim saw only the top of his battered hat bobbing about.

When Jim joined him he was digging in a great pile of ashes with the charred spoke of a wagon-wheel. At a little distance from him were the remains of numerous mules. The Missourian looked up from his work as Jim approached.

“There was at least three wagons burnt heah; I can tell that by the iron work I've found; but most of their loads must have been carried off, or else they was pretty nearly empty.”

Jim received this information with stolid indifference; had the Missourian called him there to tell him that?

“I wonder why they took the trouble to burn their wagons?” continued the Missourian. “You'd a thought if they had wanted to get shut of them they'd just left them.”

And now Jim's ill-temper mastered him.

“They was probably figuring on some damn fool happening along this way—” he began, but the Missourian cut him short.

“They must have had you in mind then,” he said. “Hold on, Mr. Orphan, can you tell me why these heah parties pulled up to the top of this heah hill?”

“To burn their wagons,” retorted Jim sarcastically. “Ain't that plain?”

“And why did they want to burn their outfit?”

“Because their stock had all give out; that's plain, ain't it?” said Jim promptly.

“Exactly; and the stock gave out the minute the wagons was burnt; but I don't reckon you see anything curious in that,” retorted the Missourian triumphantly.

While they were speaking, he had been pursuing his investigations in a constantly widening circle. Now he stepped quickly toward a shallow ditch the rains had cut in the south slope of the hill. Jim was at his side, and the two men came to a sudden pause on the bank of this ditch.

“I guess it's a bundle of bedding—or clothes—” said Jim nervously, and with a tremor in his voice.

“I reckon there's another guess coming to you,” said the Missourian as he cautiously slipped into the ditch.

“I'd be careful if it was me. Maybe it was the cholera,” cautioned Jim.

“Hell! I never thought of that!” and the Missourian sprang back to the bank. There was silence while they looked into each other's eyes.

“Man, there was five of them!” said the Missourian at last in a hoarse, shocked whisper, and his bearded lips quivered. “I noticed a part of a shovel and a right good pick back by where the wagons was burnt; don't you reckon we could spare the time to heave this heah bank in on top of them—those damn buzzards—”

“Look here, pardner, I'm all for getting out of this. I wouldn't expect any one to bury me if I up and died of the cholera,” said Jim.

“I'm not so doggone sure it was the cholera; hand me that stick, I'm going to find out,” and he slid back into the ditch. He worked in silence with the stick for a moment while Jim watched spellbound, fearing to stay and yet not daring to leave, for their discovery had filled that wide solitude with a sudden chilling horror. “No, this gentleman's got a bullet hole in his head—that ain't the cholera.” There was another pause while the Missourian was busy with the stick; then perspiring but indefatigable he spoke once more.

“Look heah, Jim, right through the heart; you can see where his shirt's all bloody. Me and you have seen enough of cholera to know that ain't the way it takes a man.” The stick was used again. “This heah consumptive looking chap's all shot to pieces; whoever done it made a sieve out of him.” He gained the ditch bank.

“I wish I had a good drink of licker right now,” said Jim weakly.

“Same here,” echoed the Missourian. “Well,” said he, after a moment's reflection, “it ain't a job I hanker for, but I'm going through their pockets. I am going to see who they was and where they come from. You go fetch that pick and shovel; we'll be ready for them in a minute.”

But he was white faced and shaking when his fruitless search was finished. He had found nothing that served to throw any light on the identity of the dead men.

“There ain't the scratch of a pen about any of them; no letters—no papers—no nothing. Somebody's been ahead of me.”

“I wouldn't have did what you just done for five hundred dollars!” declared Jim.

“I wouldn't either—for the money,” said the Missourian. “Give me the pick.”

The two men attacked the bank with feverish energy and their task was soon finished; then the Missourian said:

“Now we'll just take one more look about among those cinders and then we'll get away from heah just as fast as the Lord will let us. I seen places I liked a heap better.”

But the search revealed nothing new.

“Who do you allow done it? Indians?” asked Jim, as they hurried away in the direction their mules had taken.

“Who else would it be?”

“No one else, judging from the way they'd been used. They—”

“Shut up!” cried the Missourian with sudden fierceness, “I ain't likely to forget how they was used! Good God! That's going to stick in my crop to the end of my days, I reckon—don't you rub it in!”

“Well, you done what was white!” said Jim, with unexpected and generous enthusiasm.

But for the rest of that day and far into the night, they could talk and think of nothing else than those dead men in the ditch.