The sun sank lower; the shadows down about the lake shores thickened and began to run, more and more swiftly, up the surrounding slopes.  The tall peaks caught the last of the fading light, and like so many watch-towers blazed across the wilderness.  Upward, about their bases, surged the flooding shadows like a dark tide rising swiftly; the light on the tallest spire winked and went out; and all of a sudden the rush of air through the pine tops strengthened and a growing murmur like the voice of a distant surf made it seem that one could hear the flood of the night sweeping through gorge and canon and inundating the world.  And, despite all that Mark King could do, the sunset glow had gone and the first big star was shining before Andy Parker stirred.

His first call was for water.  Then he complained of a terrible pain in his vitals, a pain that stabbed him through from chest to abdomen.  Thereafter he was never coherent again, though for the most part he babbled like a noisy brook.  He spoke of Swen Brodie and old Loony Honeycutt and Gus Ingle all in one breath, and King knew that Gus Ingle was sixty years dead; he dwelt hectically on the “luck of the unlucky Seven.”  And when, far on in the night, he at length grew silent and King went to peer into his face by the light of his camp-fire, Andy Parker was dead.

* * * * *

Mark King made the grave in the dawn.  In his roll, the handle slipped out so that it might lie snug against the steel head, was a short miner’s pick.  A little below where Parker lay in his last wide-eyed vigil under the stars, King found a fairly level space free of rock and carpeted in young grass.  Here with a pine-tree to mark head and foot, he worked at the shallow grave.  He put his own blanket down, laid the quiet figure gently upon it, bringing the ends over to cover him.  He marked the spot with a pile of rocks; he blazed the two trees.  It was all that he could do; far more than Andy Parker would have done for him or for any other man.

The sun was rising when, he made his way to the top of the ridge and came to stand where he had seen Parker and Swen Brodie side by side.  He clambered on until he came to the very crest over which Swen Brodie had disappeared.  Just where had Brodie gone?  He wondered.  The answer came before the question could have been put into words.  Though it was full day across the heights where King stood, it would be an hour and longer before the sun got down into the canons and meadows.  He saw the flare of a camp-fire shining bright through the dark of a low-lying flat two miles or more from his vantage-point.  Brodie would be cooking his breakfast now.

After that King did not again climb up where his body would stand out against the sky which was filling so brightly with the new morning.  He moved along the ridge steadily and swiftly like a man with a definite objective who did not care to be spied on.  In twenty minutes, after many a hazardous passage along a steep bare surface, he came to a spot where the knife edge of the ridge was broken down and blunted into a fairly level space a hundred yards across.  Here was an accumulation of soil worn down from the granite above, and here, an odd, isolated tuft of scrawny verdure, grew a small grove of trees, stunted pine and scraggling brush.