The first day after the shooting he had insisted on scrawling a painfully written letter, while Ronicky propped a writing board in front of him, as he lay flat on his back in the bed, but that was his only act.  Thereafter he remained silent and brooding.  Perhaps it was hatred for Ronicky that was growing in him, as the sense of disappointment increased, for Ronicky, after all, had kept him from reaching that girl when the train passed through Stillwater.  Perhaps, for all Ronicky knew, his bullet had ruined the happiness of two lives.  He shrugged that disagreeable thought away, and, reaching the hotel, he went straight up to the room of the sick man.

“Bill,” he said gently, “have you been spending all your time hating me?  Is that what keeps you thin and glum?  Is it because you sit here all day blaming me for all the things that have happened to you?”

The dark flush and the uneasy flicker of Gregg’s glance gave a sufficient answer.  Ronicky Doone sighed and shook his head, but not in anger.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said.  “I see that I’m right.  And I don’t blame you, Bill, because, maybe, I’ve spoiled things pretty generally for you.”

At first the silence of Bill Gregg admitted that he felt the same way about the matter, yet he finally said aloud:  “I don’t blame you.  Maybe you thought I was a hoss thief.  But the thing is done, Ronicky, and it won’t never be undone!”

“Gregg,” said Ronicky, “d’you know what you’re going to do now?”

“I dunno.”

“You’re going to sit there and roll a cigarette and tell me the whole yarn.  You ain’t through with this little chase.  Not if I have to drag you along with me.  But first just figure that I’m your older brother or something like that and get rid of the whole yarn.  Got to have the ore specimens before you can assay ’em.  Besides, it’ll help you a pile to get the poison out of your system.  If you feel like cussing me hearty when the time comes go ahead and cuss, but I got to hear that story.”

“Maybe it would help,” said Gregg, “but it’s a fool story to tell.”

“Leave that to me to say whether it’s a fool story or not.  You start the talking.”

Gregg shifted himself to a more comfortable position, as is the immemorial custom of story tellers, and his glance misted a little with the flood of recollections.

“Started along back about a year ago,” he said.  “I was up to the Sullivan Mountains working a claim.  There wasn’t much to it, just enough to keep me going sort of comfortable.  I pegged away at it pretty steady, leading a lonely life and hoping every day that I’d cut my way down to a good lead.  Well, the fine ore never showed up.

“Meantime I got pretty weary of them same mountains, staring me in the face all the time.  I didn’t have even a dog with me for conversation, so I got to thinking.  Thinking is a bad thing, mostly, don’t you agree, Ronicky?”