dared to look in a certain direction. But the sun was now
high enough to paint the little eminence on which the cabin stood. In
spite of his self-control, his heart beat faster as he raised his eyes
toward it. Its window and door were closed, no smoke came from its adobe
chimney, but it was else unchanged. When within a few yards of it, he
picked up a broken shovel, and, shouldering it with a smile, strode
toward the door and knocked. There was no sound from within. The smile
died upon his lips as he nervously pushed the door open.

A figure started up angrily and came toward him,--a figure whose
bloodshot eyes suddenly fixed into a vacant stare, whose arms were
at first outstretched and then thrown up in warning gesticulation,--a
figure that suddenly gasped, choked, and then fell forward in a fit.

But before he touched the ground, York had him out into the open air and
sunshine. In the struggle, both fell and rolled over on the ground. But
the next moment York was sitting up, holding the convulsed frame of his
former partner on his knee, and wiping the foam from his inarticulate
lips. Gradually the tremor became less frequent, and then ceased; and
the strong man lay unconscious in his arms.

For some moments York held him quietly thus, looking in his face. Afar,
the stroke of a wood-man's axe--a mere phantom of sound--was all
that broke the stillness. High up the mountain, a wheeling hawk hung
breathlessly above them. And then came voices, and two men joined them.

"A fight?" No, a fit; and would they help him bring the sick man to the
hotel?

And there, for a week, the stricken partner lay, unconscious of aught
but the visions wrought by disease and fear. On the eighth day, at
sunrise, he rallied, and, opening his eyes, looked upon York, and
pressed his hand; then he spoke:--

"And it's you. I thought it was only whiskey."

York replied by taking both of his hands, boyishly working them backward
and forward, as his elbow rested on the bed, with a pleasant smile.

"And you've been abroad. How did you like Paris?"

"So, so. How did YOU like Sacramento?"

"Bully."

And that was all they could think to say. Presently Scott opened his
eyes again.

"I'm mighty weak."

"You'll get better soon."

"Not much."

A long silence followed, in which they could hear the sounds of
wood-chopping, and that Sandy Bar was already astir for the coming
day. Then Scott slowly and with difficulty turned his face to York, a