his can he saw that there were two sacks left over. He took them up and,
looking about, caught sight of a newspaper protruding from the pocket of
Garland's coat. He pulled it out, calling as he did so:

"There's two sacks I can't get in. I'm goin' to put 'em in this here
paper you got."

A grunt of acquiescence came from the bulrushes, the hacking of the
knife, the thuds going on. Knapp unfolded the paper, set the sacks in it,
and, gathering it about them, placed it on the top of his can. He heaved
the whole up and crashed through the rushes to where Garland had already
cleared a space and was digging a hole in the mud. When it was finished,
the cans--the newspaper bundle on top--were lowered into it, and earth
and roots replaced. No particular attempt was made at concealment; the
cache was as secure against intrusion as if it were on the crest of the
Sierra, and within the week they would be back to empty it. The box was
filled with stones and sunk in the stream.

Then they rested, prone on the ground, at first talking a little. There
was a question about the messenger; Knapp had shot and was casually
confident he had only winged him. The matter seemed to give him no
anxiety, and presently, his head burrowed into his arm, he fell asleep,
a great, sprawled figure with the sun making his red hair shine like a
copper helmet.

Garland lay on his back, his coat for a pillow, smoking a blackened pipe
and thinking. He saw the sky lose its blue, and fade to a thin, whitish
transparency, then flush to rose, bird specks skimming across it. He saw
the tules grow dark, black walls flanking paths incredibly glossy,
catching here and there a barring of golden cloud. He felt the breath of