It was not a cry; there was nothing plaintive in it. It was only the
old man calling his son: David calling upon Absalom. Then there was a
change. He came sternly forward.

"Who killed my boy?"

"Nobody, Uncle Peter; 'twas a stroke. He was goin' over the line and
they'd laid out at Kaslo fer a day so's Dan'l J. could see about a spur
the 'Lucky Cuss' people wanted--and maybe it was the climbin' brought
it on."

The old man looked his years. As he came nearer Billy Brue saw tears
tremble in his eyes and roll unnoted down his cheeks. Yet his voice was
unbroken and he was, indeed, unconscious of the tears.

"I was afraid of that. He lived too high. He et too much and he drank
too much and was too soft--was Dan'l.--too soft--"

The old voice trembled a bit and he stopped to look aside into the
little pocket he had been exploring. Billy Brue looked back down the
canon, where the swift stream brawled itself into white foam far below.

"He wouldn't use his legs; I prodded him about it constant--"

He stopped again to brace himself against the shock. Billy Brue still
looked away.

"I told him high altitudes and high livin' would do any man--" Again he
was silent.