When we were on our way back to our cabin, toward breakfast-time, we ran upon the news that Fetlock Jones had escaped from his lock-up in the night and is gone!  Nobody is sorry.  Let his uncle track him out if he likes; it is in his line; the camp is not interested.

V

Ten days later.

“James Walker” is all right in body now, and his mind shows improvement too.  I start with him for Denver to-morrow morning.

Next night.  Brief note, mailed at a way-station.

As we were starting, this morning, Hillyer whispered to me:  “Keep this news from Walker until you think it safe and not likely to disturb his mind and check his improvement:  the ancient crime he spoke of was really committed—­and by his cousin, as he said.  We buried the real criminal the other day—­the unhappiest man that has lived in a century—­Flint Buckner.  His real name was Jacob Fuller!” There, mother, by help of me, an unwitting mourner, your husband and my father is in his grave.  Let him rest.