I set off at once, and on my second day out
I met these two men, Mr. Macgregor and Perault, exhausted with
travelling and faint with hunger."

"Guess you'd better tell how you found them, Kid," said Ike, who had
heard the story before.

"Well, gentlemen," continued The Kid, his voice shaking, "it was a
pretty tough sight, I can tell you. I first saw them a long way down
the trail. Mr. Macgregor was carrying Perault on his back and evidently
walking with great difficulty. When I came up to them I found Perault
was almost, if not quite, insensible, and Mr. Macgregor in the last
stages of exhaustion." The Kid paused a few moments to steady his
voice. Low, deep oaths were heard on every side, while Perault, still
weak and nervous from his recent terrible experience, was sobbing
audibly.

"I had plenty of grub," continued The Kid. "I did my best for them and
helped them home. That is all I have to say."

A deep silence fell upon the group of men.

"Now, Perault," said Sinclair, "tell us your story."

Perault tried to steady his voice, but, failing utterly, broke into
passionate weeping, Sinclair waiting in grave silence for him to
recover. Macnamara, the soft-hearted big Irish rancher, was quietly
wiping his eyes, while the other men were swearing terrible oaths.

"Give him a drink," drawled Ike. "Too much water aint good for no man."

Half a dozen flasks were immediately offered. Perault drank, and, after
a few moments, began his tale.

"I can' spik much, me," he said, "when I tink how dat beeg feller pack
me on hees back twenty mile, I fin' bad pain here," striking his
breast, "and den I can' spik at all." And again the little Frenchman's
voice broke down in sobs.

"Take time, Perault," said Sinclair gravely. "We want to know all about
it. Begin at the beginning and tell it in your own way." The grave
tone, even more than the whisky he had drunk, steadied Perault, and he
began again.

"Dat's twelve or tirteen day, now. De Preachere, dat Prospector, I call
heem, he's jus' lak de Ole Boss, for sure--de Prospector he's sen' dat
ole fool doctor, for me queek. I come and fin' de Prospector he's ver'
mad; mos' awful mad; never see heem lak, dat before. 'Perault,' he say,
'get ponee and grub queek. We go for de Los' Reever.'"

"By gar! He's mak me scare. I get ponee an' grub and get off queek,
toute suite, right away. Well, we go two day hard and come to de camp
where de Ole Boss he's die, den we climb over de mont