was nowhere any sign that the cabin had been entered. My own tracks
were visible in the dust covering the floor, but there were no
others. I relit my pipe, provided fresh fuel by ripping a thin board
or two from the inside of the house--I did not care to go into the
darkness out of doors--and passed the rest of the night smoking and
thinking, and feeding my fire; not for added years of life would I
have permitted that little flame to expire again.


Some years afterward I met in Sacramento a man named Morgan, to whom
I had a note of introduction from a friend in San Francisco. Dining
with him one evening at his home I observed various "trophies" upon
the wall, indicating that he was fond of shooting. It turned out
that he was, and in relating some of his feats he mentioned having
been in the region of my adventure.

"Mr. Morgan," I asked abruptly, "do you know a place up there called
Macarger's Gulch?"

"I have good reason to," he replied; "it was I who gave to the
newspapers, last year, the accounts of the finding of the skeleton
there."

I had not heard of it; the accounts had been published, it appeared,
while I was absent in the East.

"By the way," said Morgan, "the name of the gulch is a corruption; it
should have been called 'MacGregor's.' My dear," he added, speaking
to his wife, "Mr. Elderson has upset his wine."