"There is a burn upon his head. Menard says it was a stroke of lightning." "Oh," she sighs, and sinks back in the wagon, turning her head to look at the form upon the pallet. "Mrs. Krutzer." She leans toward him again and listens mutely. "We--Menard, Joe Blakesly, and myself--will watch to-night with the body. We know very little about Pearson, and the little one; what can you tell us?" "Not much;" clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. "It was like this: Pearson joined our train just before we crossed Bear Creek--beyond the reserve, you know. That was three weeks before we left the others, to join your train. The child was ailing at the time, and so Pearson put it in my charge, most of the other women having more children than I to take care of. I liked the little thing, and it did not seem a trouble to me; so after a while Pearson offered to pay me, if I would look after it until we struck God's country. But I would not let him pay me, for the baby seems like my own." "And _now_, Mrs. Krutzer?" "I am coming to that. Pearson told us, at the first, that the little girl was not his; that its father was a miner back among the mountains. Its mother was dead, and the father, who was an old friend of Pearson's, had put it in his care, to be taken to New York, where its relatives live. Pearson was obliged to quit mining, you know, on account of his health." "Yes; do you know the address of the child's friends?" "Yes; it's an aunt, her father's sister. About two weeks ago--I think Pearson must have had a presentiment or something of the kind--he came to me, and gave me a letter and a package, saying that if anything happened to him during the trip, he wanted me to see the little girl safely in the hands of her relatives. The letter was from the baby's father, and the packet contained the address of the New York people, and enough money to pay my expenses after I leave the wagon train. I promised Pearson that I would take care of the child and put her safe in her aunt's hands, and so I will--but, Oh, dear! I never expected to be obliged to do it." A hollow groan breaks upon her speech; the man upon the pallet is writhing as if in intensest agony. The woman makes a signal of dismissal, and drops the canvas curtain. Walter Parks hesitates a moment, and then, as a second groan greets his ear, turns and strides away. III. The clouds hang overhead like a murky canopy. The wind is sighing itself to sleep. The rain has ceased, but large drops drip dismally from the great branches that lately sheltered Arthur Pearson's death-bed. Beside the rocks, three men are standing. It is three o'clock in the morning. Two of the three men bend down to examine something which the third, lighted by a lantern, has just taken from the wet ground at his feet. It is a small thing to excite so much earnest scrutiny; only the half burned fragment of a lucifer match.