rough nuts
but respected her. She was one of the few beautiful Injin women I've
seen. Well, it come out that Piccadilly had ruined her, and one morning
she was found dead. It drove my pal well-nigh crazy. Not that she was
anything partik'ler to him; but the thing took hold of him unusual."

Now that I know all concerning Roscoe's past life, I can imagine that
this recital must have been swords at his heart. The whole occurrence is
put down minutely in his diary, but there is no word of comment upon it.

Phil had been obliged to stop for pain, and, after Roscoe had adjusted
the bandages, he continued:

"My pal and the others made up their minds they'd lynch Piccadilly; they
wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt--for it wasn't certain that
the girl hadn't killed herself.... Well, I went to Piccadilly, and give
him the benefit. He left, and skipped the rope. Not, p'r'aps, that
he ought to hev got away, but once he'd showed me a letter from his
mother,--he was drunk too, at the time,--and I remembered when my
brother Rodney was killed in the Black Hills, and how my mother took it;
so I give him the tip to travel quick."

He paused and rested. Then presently continued: "Now, Padre, I've got
four hundred dollars--the most I ever had at one time in my life. And
I'd like it to go to my old pal--though we had that difference, and
parted. I guess we respect each other about the same as we ever did. And
I wish you'd write it down so that the thing would be municipal."

Roscoe took pencil and paper and said: "What's his name, Phil?"

"Sam--Tonga Sam."

"But that isn't all his name?"

"No, I s'pose not, but it's all he ever had in general use. He'd got it
because he'd been to the Tonga Islands and used to yarn about them. Put
'Tonga Sam, Phil Boldrick's Pal at Danger Mountain, ult'--add the 'ult,'
it's c'rrect.--That'll find him. And write him these words, and if
you ever see him say them to him--'Phil Boldrick never had a pal that
crowded Tonga Sam.'"

When the document was written, Roscoe read it aloud, then both signed
it, Roscoe guiding the battered hand over the paper.

This done, there was a moment's pause, and then Phil said: "I'd like to
be in the open. I was born in the open--on the Madawaska. Take me out,
Padre."

Roscoe stepped to the door, and silently beckoned to Devlin and myself.
We carried him out, and put him beside a pine tree.

"Where am I now?" he said. "Under the white pine, Phil." "That's ri