The day was consumed in the petty affairs attendant upon such a campaign.  When his three old partners went away to their work at four o’clock in the afternoon, a wire had come from far out north that a man who was competent to run the line was starting for Goldite forthwith.

The moonless night, at ten o’clock, found Van alone at his tent.  From the top of the hill whereon he had camped a panoramic view of all the town swung far in both directions.  The glare of the lamps, the noise of life—­even the odor of man upon the air—­impinged upon his senses here, as he sat before the door and gazed far down upon it.  He thought that man with his fire, smells, and din made chaos in a spot that was otherwise sacred to nature.

He thought of the ceaseless persistence with which the human family haunts all the corners of the earth, pursues life’s mysteries, invades its very God.  He thought of this desert as a place created barren, lifeless, dead, and severe for some inscrutable purpose—­perhaps even fashioned by the Maker as His place to be alone.  But the haunter was there with his garish town, his canvas-tented circus of a day, and God had doubtless moved.

How little the game amounted to, at the end of a man’s short span!  What a senseless repetition it seemed—­the same old comedies, the same old tragedies, the same old bits of generosity, and greed, of weakness, hope, and despair!  Except for a warm little heartful of love—­ah love!  He paused at that and laughed, unmirthfully.  That was the thing that made of it a Hades, or converted the desert into heaven!

“Dreamers! dreamers—­all of us!” he said, and he went within to flatten down his blankets for the night.

He had finally blown out his candle and stretched himself upon the ground, to continue his turmoil of thinking, when abruptly his sharp ear caught at a sound as of someone slipping on a stone that turned, just out upon the slope.  He sat up alertly.

Half a minute passed.  Then something heavy lurched against the tent, the flap was lifted, and a man appeared, stooped double as if in pain.

“Who’s there?” demanded Van.  “Is that you, Gett?” He caught up his gun, but it and the hand that held it were invisible.

“It’s me,” said a voice—­a croaking voice.  “Matt Barger.”

He fell on the floor, breathing in some sort of anguish, and Van struck a match, to light the candle.

The flame flared blindingly inside the canvas whiteness.  A great, moving shadow of Van was projected behind him on the wall.  The light gleamed brightly from his gun.  But it fell on an inert mass where Barger had fallen to the earth.

He did not move, and Van, mechanically igniting the candle’s wick, while he eyed the man before him, beheld dry blood, and some that was fresh, on the haggard face, on the tattered clothing, and even on one loose hand.

“Barger!” he said.  “What in thunder, man——­”