on swearing at his bad luck and that Chinaman.

"Only a Testament!" Then an idea struck him like an inspiration. Did not
the good little Widow give the brown wretch this thing?

He stopped swearing, stood still in the trail a moment, and then, giving
a long whistle as he drew a long breath, he went on to his cabin in
silence.

That Testament troubled the Parson. There was not much religion in the
Forks. There was little sign of anything of that kind among the men of
the Sierras. Perhaps there were other Testaments hidden away under the
bunks of the miners, but they were never visible. I know of one, the
gift of a good mother, that forever refused to get lost, or wear out, or
disappear under any circumstances. Other books would get themselves
borrowed and never come back, other books would get themselves thrummed
and thumbed, the backs torn off, and the leaves torn out, but this one
little book with its black, modest cover was always the same. It looked
as new and nice, as ready to be read, as full of hope and promise, after
ten years of service in the Sierras, as it did the day it first nestled
down in the bottom of the carpet-bag to wait patiently for the prodigal
to return and feed upon its glorious promises.

But the presence of this book had a wider meaning than all this to the
Parson.

Williams had been a sort of Calvin. He was a terrible religious
enthusiast. It was his devotion, his misled enthusiasm, that made him
take part in the persecution and death of the so-called prophet. It was
that which brought the awful persecution upon him and his. The children,
it was said, inherited their father's religious zeal.

This Testament was to the Parson only another evidence that the Widow
was indeed the missing Nancy Williams. He told all this in confidence to
a knot of friends the next day.

Deboon only brushed and brushed, with both hands, a pet fox which
perched friskily on his shoulder, but said nothing.

The Gopher slowly arose and shook himself. Then he reached out his fist
and shook it in the air.

"What if she is? By the eternal Tom Cats! What if she is the real living
and breathing Nancy Williams? And what if they do say she killed one of
'em the night before she got away, eh? Here she is and here she stays,
and let me see the Destroying Angel, Danite or Devil, that dares to
interfere."

The man strode out of the cabin like a king, and Deboon only stroked his
frisky fox and walked on after him, lookin