But Pete had more on his mind. He groped feebly about and whined a request which Ike finally understood to be for paper and a pencil. He looked about but found nothing except a paper bag in which were some candles. These he dumped out and, to pacify the man, handed the paper to him with his own pencil. It was evident that Pete would not rest until he had had his way, and if he was crossed further his excitement was bound to kill him almost at once. In obedience to Pete's wishes Ike lifted him slightly and held him up while he wrote a few scrawling, ragged characters on the sack. Almost illegible, they were written in some language which Ike knew nothing about but, at the bottom of the bag Pete laboriously wrote a name and address which Ike guessed was that of his wife, in the far-off Basse Pyrenean province of France. "I'll see it gits to her," said Ike, reassuringly. But Pete was not satisfied. "Zose or," he repeated, chokingly. "I find heem--on ze Lunch R-rock, where I step. Eet ees half to you an' lettl' Marian--half to _ma femme_ an' ze _bébé_. You weel find heem?" "Ore?" repeated Ike, doubtingly. "You talking French or English?" "_Or! Oui!_ Een Englees eet ees gol', you say! I find heem--back zere by ze Lunch R-rock. Zen some one shoot--I no see heem! I not know w'y. One 'bang!' I hear an' zat ees all. Ze wagon run away, ze sheep are los', an' I lose ze head!" "Ore!" repeated Ike, blankly. "You found gold, is that what you're telling me? Where?" "Back--back zere--by ze Lunch Rock where I eat! Much _or_--gold! I find heem an' half is yours!" "That's all right," soothed Ike, thinking the man was crazy. "You found a lot of gold and half is mine and Marian's, while the rest goes to your folks? That's it, ain't it?" Pete nodded as well as he could and even tried to grin his satisfaction at being understood, waving a feeble hand again in the direction of the burlap sack. But his strength was gone and he could not articulate any more. Pretty soon, as the wagon jolted onward, he relapsed into a coma, broken only by mutterings in his native and incomprehensible tongue. By his side Ike sat, vainly wondering who had shot the man and why. But Pete, if he knew, was past telling. To the story of gold, Ike paid hardly any heed, not even taking the trouble to look into the sack. After a while the mutterings ceased, while his breathing grew more labored and uneven. Then, while Willow Spring was still miles away, he suddenly gasped, choked, and writhed beneath the blanket. The blood welled up to his lips, and he fell back and lay still. Ike, with face twisted into lines of sorrow, drew the blanket over the man's head and sat beside his body with bowed face.