The bight of the pack-rope under the dead man’s shoulders enabled him to heave the body out of the hole.  Then he set to work gathering up his gold.  He worked steadily for several hours, pausing often to rest his stiffening shoulder and to exclaim: 

“He shot me in the back, the measly skunk!  He shot me in the back!”

When his treasure was quite cleaned up and wrapped securely into a number of blanket-covered parcels, he made an estimate of its value.

“Four hundred pounds, or I’m a Hottentot,” he concluded.  “Say two hundred in quartz an’ dirt—­that leaves two hundred pounds of gold.  Bill!  Wake up!  Two hundred pounds of gold!  Forty thousand dollars!  An’ it’s yourn—­all yourn!”

He scratched his head delightedly and his fingers blundered into an unfamiliar groove.  They quested along it for several inches.  It was a crease through his scalp where the second bullet had ploughed.

He walked angrily over to the dead man.

“You would, would you!” he bullied.  “You would, eh?  Well, I fixed you good an’ plenty, an’ I’ll give you decent burial, too.  That’s more’n you’d have done for me.”

He dragged the body to the edge of the hole and toppled it in.  It struck the bottom with a dull crash, on its side, the face twisted up to the light.  The miner peered down at it.

“An’ you shot me in the back!” he said accusingly.

With pick and shovel he filled the hole.  Then he loaded the gold on his horse.  It was too great a load for the animal, and when he had gained his camp he transferred part of it to his saddle-horse.  Even so, he was compelled to abandon a portion of his outfit—­pick and shovel and gold-pan, extra food and cooking utensils, and divers odds and ends.

The sun was at the zenith when the man forced the horses at the screen of vines and creepers.  To climb the huge boulders the animals were compelled to uprear and struggle blindly through the tangled mass of vegetation.  Once the saddle-horse fell heavily and the man removed the pack to get the animal on its feet.  After it started on its way again the man thrust his head out from among the leaves and peered up at the hillside.

“The measly skunk!” he said, and disappeared.

There was a ripping and tearing of vines and boughs.  The trees surged back and forth, marking the passage of the animals through the midst of them.  There was a clashing of steel-shod hoofs on stone, and now and again a sharp cry of command.  Then the voice of the man was raised in song:—­

   “Tu’n around an’ tu’n yo’ face
   Untoe them sweet hills of grace
     (D’ pow’rs of sin yo’ am scornin’!). 
   Look about an’ look aroun’
   Fling yo’ sin-pack on d’ groun’
     (Yo’-will meet wid d’ Lord in d’ mornin’!).”

The song grew faint and fainter, and through the silence crept back the spirit of the place.  The stream once more drowsed and whispered; the hum of the mountain bees rose sleepily.  Down through the perfume-weighted air fluttered the snowy fluffs of the cottonwoods.  The butterflies drifted in and out among the trees, and over all blazed the quiet sunshine.  Only remained the hoof-marks in the meadow and the torn hillside to mark the boisterous trail of the life that had broken the peace of the place and passed on.