zag paths leading down that steep precipice. One was
generally used as a descent, the other as an ascent from the
canyon below. I chose the latter, as being the freest from the
chance of observation. It required the greatest caution to
thread the narrow gorge; but I finally reached the rocky
bench, about one thousand feet below the grade of the
railroad. It was now broad daylight, and I commenced
cautiously the search for Summerfield's body. There is quite a
dense undergrowth of shrubs thereabouts, lining the
interstices of the granite rocks so as to obscure the vision
even at a short distance. Brushing aside a thick manzanita
bush, I beheld the dead man at the same instant of time that
another person arrived like an apparition upon the spot. It
was Bartholomew Graham, known as "Black Bart." We suddenly
confronted each other, the skeleton of Summerfield lying
exactly between us. Our recognition was mutual. Graham
advanced and I did the same; he stretched out his hand and we
greeted one another across the prostrate corpse.

Before releasing my hand, Black Bart exclaimed in a hoarse
whisper, "Swear, Gillson, in the presence of the dead, that
you will forever be faithful, never betray me, and do exactly
as I bid you, as long as you live!"

I looked him full in the eye. Fate sat there, cold and
remorseless as stone. I hesitated; with his left hand he
slightly raised the lappels of his coat, and grasped the
handle of a navy revolver.

"Swear!" again he cried.

As I gazed, his eyeballs assumed a greenish tint, and his
brow darkened into a scowl. "As your confederate," I answered,
"never as your slave."

"Be it so!" was his only reply.

The body was lying upon its back, with the face upwards. The
vultures had despoiled the countenance of every vestige of
flesh, and left the sockets of the eyes empty. Snow and ice
and rain had done their work effectually upon the exposed
surfaces of his clothing, and the eagles had feasted upon the
entrails. But underneath, the thick beaver cloth had served to
protect the flesh, and there were some decaying shreds left of
what had once been the terrible but accomplished Gregory
Summerfield. A glance told us all these things. But they did
not interest me so much as another spectacle, that almost
froze my blood. In the skelet