“Thank you, Bess,” acknowledged the man monotonously.  Slowly, strangely different from his usual alert certainty, he moved across the room.  “There are just a few things here I’d like to take with me,” he explained apologetically.  “They’d only be in your way if I left them.”

With a hand that fumbled a bit, he took down a battered telescope satchel from a peg on the wall and began packing.  He moved about slowly here and there, his moccasined feet patting dully on the bare floor.  No one offered to assist him, no one interrupted; and in dead silence, except for the sound he himself made, he went about his work.  Into the satchel went a few books from the shelf on the wall:  an old army greatcoat that had been Colonel William Landor’s:  a weather-stained cap which had been a present likewise:  a handful of fossils he had gathered in one of his journeys to the Bad Lands:  an inexpensive trinket here and there, that the girl herself had made for him.  The satchel was small, and soon, pitifully soon, it was full.  A moment thereafter he stood beside it, looking about him; then with an effort he put on the cover and began tightening the straps.  The leather was old and the holes large, but he found difficulty even then in fastening the buckles.  At last, though, it was done, and he straightened.  Both the white man and the girl were watching him; but no one spoke.  For the second time, the last time, the Indian stood so while his intense black eyes shifted from nook to nook, taking in every detail of the place that had once been his heaven, his nest, but now his no more; then of a sudden he lifted his burden and started to leave.  Opposite the girl he paused and held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Bess,” he said.  He looked her deep in the eyes, deep into her very soul.  “If I knew what religion is, I’d say God bless you, girl; but I don’t, so I’ll only say good-bye—­and—­I wish you happiness.”  Just a moment longer he remained so; then at something he saw, he dropped her hand and drew away swiftly, preventingly.

“Don’t, Bess,” he pleaded, “don’t say it—­as you cared for me once.  Don’t make things any harder—­make them impossible!” Desperately, without another pause, ere she could disobey, he started for the door.  Beside the entrance—­for he was not watching these last minutes—­stood the white man; and just for a moment at his side the Indian halted.  Despite the will of Clayton Craig, their eyes met.  For an instant, wherein time lapsed, they stood face to face; then swiftly as he did everything, now the Indian spoke:  and, as once before in his life, those words and the look that accompanied them went with the alien to his grave.

“As for you, Mr. Craig,” said the voice, “I have one thing only to say.  Make Bess happy.  There’s nothing in the world to prevent your doing so, if you will.  If you do not—­” a pause of horrible ice-cold menace—­“if you do not,” repeated, “suicide.”  Just for the fraction of a second not a civilised man but a savage stared the listener in the face.  “I shall know if you fail, and believe me, it were better, a thousand times better, if you do as I say.”