abin. The next day the crippled Dutchman
rode up the trail out of camp, and was seen no more.

Still later in the Fall the Parson sat in the Howling Wilderness, with
his back to the blazing, crackling fire, having it all his own way at
his favorite game of old sledge.

He had led his queen for the jack just as though he knew where every
card in the pack was entrenched. Then he led the king with like
composure, and was just crooking his fingers up his sleeve for the ace,
when a man in black, with a beaver hat and white necktie, rode by the
window on a black horse.

"Somebody's a dyin' up the creek, I 'speck," said Stubbs. "Maybe it's
old Yallar. He allers was a kind of a prayin' codfish eatin' cuss, any
how."

Here Stubbs turned and kicked nervously at the fire.

The game did not go on after that. No one said any thing. Perhaps that
was the trouble. The men fell to thinking, and the game lost its
interest.

There was no fight of importance at the Howling Wilderness that night,
and by midnight the frequenters of the saloon had withdrawn. The candles
were then put out, and the proprietors barricaded the door against
belated drunkards, spread their blankets on a monte-table, with their
pistols under their heads, and by the smouldering fire were at rest.

The ground was frozen hard next morning, and the miners flocked into the
Howling Wilderness. The Parson was leading off gaily again, and swearing
with unusual eloquence and brilliancy, when a tall, thin, and sallow
man, from Missouri, known as the "Jumper," entered. He looked wild and
excited, and stepped high, as if on stilts.

The tall, thin man went straight up to the bar, struck his knuckles on
the counter, and nodded at the red bottle before him. It came forward,
with a glass tumbler, and he drank deep, alone and in silence.

When a miner of the Sierras enters a saloon where other men are seated,
and drinks alone, without inviting any one, it is meant as a deliberate
insult to those present, unless there is some dreadful thing on his
mind.

The Jumper, tall and fidgety, turned to the Parson, bent his back
against the counter, and pushed back his hat. Then he drew his right
sleeve across his mouth, and let his arms fall down at his side limp and
helpless, and his round, brown butternut head rolled loose and awkward
from shoulder to shoulder.

"Parson."

"Well! well! Spit it out!" cried the Parson, as he arose from the bench,
with a dreadful oath. "Spit i