His mind was made up that if he missed the _Athenian_ it would be the
fault of the gripsack. In fact, only two things remained in his
consciousness--Bondell's grip and the steamer. He knew only those two
things, and they became identified, in a way, with some stern mission
upon which he had journeyed and toiled for centuries. He walked and
struggled on as in a dream. As part of the dream was his arrival at
Sheep Camp. He stumbled into a saloon, slid his shoulders out of the
straps, and started to deposit the grip at his feet. But it slipped from
his fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that was not unnoticed
by two men who were just leaving. Churchill drank a glass of whisky,
told the barkeeper to call him in ten minutes, and sat down, his feet on
the grip, his head on his knees.

So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called it
required another ten minutes and a second glass of whisky to unbend his
joints and limber up the muscles.

"Hey not that way!" the barkeeper shouted, and then went after him and
started him through the darkness toward Canyon City. Some little husk of
inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right, and,
still as in a dream, he took the canon trail. He did not know what
warned him, but after what seemed several centuries of travelling, he
sensed danger and drew his revolver. Still in the dream, he saw two men
step out and heard them halt him. His revolver went off four times, and
he saw the flashes and heard the explosions of their revolvers. Also, he
was aware that he had been hit in the thigh. He saw one man go down,
and, as the other came for him, he smashed him a straight blow with the
heavy revolver full in the face. Then he turned and ran. He came from
the dream shortly afterward, to find himself plunging down the trail at a
limping lope. His first thought was for the gripsack. It was still on