"FANNIE."

In dead silence Lyster unfolded the third paper. The drama of this
stranger's life was a pathetic thing to the listeners, who looked at him
with pity in their eyes, but could utter no words of sympathy to the man
who sat there helpless and looked at them. Then the last, a penciled
sheet, was read.

"JOE: I am dying, I think. The Indian woman with me says so; and I
hope it is true. He came to me to-day--the first time in weeks. He
never married me, as he promised. He cursed me to-day because my baby
face led him away from a fortune he knows you found. I never told
him, though it is a wonder. All he knows of it he heard you say in
your sleep when you were sick that time. To-day he told me you were
paralyzed, Joe--that you are helpless still--that he has taken
Indians with him there to your old claim, and searched every foot of
ground for the gold vein he thinks you know of. But it is of no use,
and he is furious over it, and so taunts me of your helplessness
alone in the wilderness.

"Joe, I still have the plan you made of the river and the two little
streams and the marked tree. Can't I make amends some way for the
wrong I did you? Is there anywhere a friend you could trust to work
the find and take care of you? For if you are too helpless to write
yourself, and can get only the name of the person to me, I will send
the plan some way to him. I know I am not to live long. I am in a
perfect fever to hear from you, and tell you that my sin against you
weighs me down to despair.

"I can't tell you of my life with him; it is too horrible. I do not
even know who he is, for Ingalls is not his name. We are with Indians
and they call him 'Medicine,' and seem to know him well. He has left
me here, to-day, and I feel I will never see him again. He tells me
he has sent for a young white boy who is to be brought to camp, and
who will help care for me. Anything would be better than the sly red
faces about me; they fill me with terror. My one hope is that the boy
may get this letter sent to you, and that some word may come to me
from you before my life ends. It has taken me all this day to write
to you.

"Good-by. I am dying miserably, and I deserve it. I can't even tell
you where to write me; only we are with Indians camped by a big
river. Not far away is a wall of rock, like a hill, beside the river,
and Indian writing is cut on the wall, and holes