piecemeal from his unwilling tongue; short, jerky phrases, conceived in
pain and delivered in agony. "We--me'n Hank Rowan--comin' from the
North--made a stake on the Peace. They started it--at the Stone--yuh
know--Writin'-Stone. Hank an' me--you'll find Hank in the
cottonwoods--Stony Crossin'. I tried--tried t' make Walsh. Two of
'em--masked--tried t' make me tell--tell 'em--where we made the _cache_.
I'm--I'm done--I guess. The dust, it's--it's--_a-a-ah_----"

The gnarled hands shut up into clenched fists, and the feeble voice
trailed off in an agonized moan.

I laved his pain-twisted face with the cool water and let a few drops
trickle into his open mouth. He gasped a few times, then, gathering
strength again, went on with that horrible spasmodic recitation.

"They were after us--a long time. Lyn's at Walsh. There's a--a good
stake. Get it--for her. It's _cached_--under the Stone--yuh
know--Writin'-Stone. Three sacks. That's what--they wanted.
You'll--you'll--on the rock above--marked--gold--raw gold--that's
it--gold--raw gold--Mac--I want--I want----"

That was all. The tense muscles relaxed. His head fell back limp on
MacRae's arm, and the rest of the message went with the game old
Dutchman across the big divide. We laid him down gently, folded his arms
on his breast, and for a moment held our peace in tribute to his
passing.

MacRae was first to speak.

"There's a lot back of this that I can't understand," he said, more to