“Bub had most likely bin diggin’ under the rock and gitting out the pay dirt, and when he’d git so fur in he’d put in a plug to shore up the thing and keep it from fallin’. That day when he read that paper and he felt the whole world crumblin’ ’round his head, he jest made it literal by goin’ up to his claim, crawlin’ under the stone, and kickin’ out the plugs.” There was a pause. Peter rose; cutting a piece of the roasting brisket, he started for his bunk, but stopped before climbing in. “That’s why I ast you if you turned over the stone—but I hoped you didn’t.” Scott had been fifteen years in the woods and wanted to settle down, saying he would like to see some little Scotts running around. So when the summer camp broke up he looked about for a location. He found a log house that had been built by a man named Carrick, who was hated in the community, principally because he held mortgages on nearly all the farms for twenty miles around. Carrick did not have a right to this particular homestead, as he did not live on it, so Scott went in and jumped the property. Knowing Carrick would try to use the land, Scott was ready for him, and when he tried to put his sheep in, Scott, who was waiting in a hole in the ground, rose with his gun in his hands, saying: “_Don’t touch them bars!_” Like all crooks, Carrick was a coward at heart, and, instead of settling in the usual way of this part of the country—as man to man—he took Scott into court. With no money in back of him, Scott won his case, his extreme honesty and simplicity impressing the judge. For instance, I remember there was a question as to whether he was an American citizen or no, and he answered: “Wal, Jedge, the first thing I remember is livin’ in a town about a half a mile over the border into Canada, but my mother allus said I was born in a little red house that we could see across the line, an’ I took her word for it.” And so did the court. I had left Scott and Peter Klink and had gone back to Sissons, when one morning a man we called “the Texan” came racing down the town’s one street on horseback, yelling: “Scott’s shot! Scott’s shot!” Scott had been beloved of all, and everyone was aroused. It was quite awhile before we could get the story out of the Texan, but it finally came to this. He had come across a wagon standing all alone on the road, filled with the groceries Scott had bought in Yreka. It was turned around, with the horses facing downhill, the whole weight of the wagon bearing upon them. They were nosing toward home and evidently had been there all night, as they were covered with snow. Looking about, the Texan had seen a trail into the bushes and, going in a half mile or more, he found Scott’s body. There was a rope around the neck and he had been dragged into the woods. The memory came to me of one night when I was camping with Scott. The conversation had turned on death. “How would you like to die?” I asked him.