go, for he could not conceive the
removal of the Dubois of his acquaintance being the occasion of either
private or public sorrow.

But even the sermons of young rectors must end, and at last Lutz, in the
tremulous, minor, crepe-trimmed voice and drooping attitude which made
the listeners feel that undertakers like poets are born, not made, urged
those who cared to do so to step forward and pass around to the right.

Yes, it was he; there was no doubt about that; the brutal, obstinate
face had altered very little in twenty years. Twenty years? It was all
of that since he had seen old "Ed" Dubois betting his gold-dust on an
Indian horse race--twenty years since young Dick Kincaid had floundered
through the drifts in a mountain pass to see how the Canuck saved flour
gold. Once more he was on the trail, scuffling rocks which rolled a mile
without a stop. Before him were the purple blotches which the violets
made and he could smell the blossoms of the thorn and service berry
bushes that looked like fragrant banks of snow. He felt again the
depression of the silence in the valley below--the silence in which he
heard, instead of barking dogs and laughing children, the beating of his
own heart. He never had forgotten the sight that met his eyes, and he
recalled it now with a vividness which made him shudder, and he heard
with startling clearness the childish voice of a half-naked, emaciated
boy saying without braggadocio or hysteria--

"I'm goin' to find him, m'sieu, and when I do I'll get him, _sure_!"

Twenty years is a long time to remember an injury, but not too long for
Indian blood. It was a good shot--the purple hole was exactly in the
centre of the low, corrugated forehead--it had been no boyish, idle
threat. His son had "got him, _sure_!" Neither had Dick Kincaid
forgotten his own answer--

"If you do, boy, and I find it out, I don't know as I'll give you away."

He had learned to save flour gold and he was known as Richard H. Kincaid
in the important middle west city where he had returned with his
fortune. Time and experience had cooled his blood, yet, deep down, his
heart always responded to the call of the old, primitive justice of the
mining camps--"An eye for an eye: a tooth for a tooth."

Kincaid became conscious that he was being eyed in curiosity and
impatience by the eager folk behind. He heard Mrs. Tutts's rasping
whisper as he moved along--

"She ain't shed a tear--not even gone into black. I'll be