"When did Jo. die?" I asked rather absently. The answer took my
breath:

"Pretty soon after I looked at him through that knot-hole, w'en you
had put something in his w'isky, you derned Borgia!"

Recovering somewhat from my surprise at this astounding charge, I was
half-minded to throttle the audacious accuser, but was restrained by
a sudden conviction that came to me in the light of a revelation. I
fixed a grave look upon him and asked, as calmly as I could: "And
when did you go luny?"

"Nine years ago!" he shrieked, throwing out his clenched hands--"nine
years ago, w'en that big brute killed the woman who loved him better
than she did me!--me who had followed 'er from San Francisco, where
'e won 'er at draw poker!--me who had watched over 'er for years w'en
the scoundrel she belonged to was ashamed to acknowledge 'er and
treat 'er white!--me who for her sake kept 'is cussed secret till it
ate 'im up!--me who w'en you poisoned the beast fulfilled 'is last
request to lay 'im alongside 'er and give 'im a stone to the head of
'im! And I've never since seen 'er grave till now, for I didn't want
to meet 'im here."

"Meet him? Why, Gopher, my poor fellow, he is dead!"

"That's why I'm afraid of 'im."

I followed the little wretch back to his wagon and wrung his hand at
parting. It was now nightfall, and as I stood there at the roadside