a kind of supernatural conspiracy between the two, and Mr. Beeson
shuddered with a vague sense of terror. He recovered himself in a
moment and again addressed his guest.

"There are strange doings here. I will tell you everything, and then
if you decide to go I shall hope to accompany you over the worst of
the way; as far as where Baldy Peterson shot Ben Hike--I dare say you
know the place."

The old man nodded emphatically, as intimating not merely that he
did, but that he did indeed.

"Two years ago," began Mr. Beeson, "I, with two companions, occupied
this house; but when the rush to the Flat occurred we left, along
with the rest. In ten hours the Gulch was deserted. That evening,
however, I discovered I had left behind me a valuable pistol (that is
it) and returned for it, passing the night here alone, as I have
passed every night since. I must explain that a few days before we
left, our Chinese domestic had the misfortune to die while the ground
was frozen so hard that it was impossible to dig a grave in the usual
way. So, on the day of our hasty departure, we cut through the floor
there, and gave him such burial as we could. But before putting him
down I had the extremely bad taste to cut off his pigtail and spike
it to that beam above his grave, where you may see it at this moment,
or, preferably, when warmth has given you leisure for observation.

"I stated, did I not, that the Chinaman came to his death from
natural causes? I had, of course, nothing to do with that, and
returned through no irresistible attraction, or morbid fascination,
but only because I had forgotten a pistol. This is clear to you, is