"Reckon you ain't so glad to see me," wheezed Jim, still chuckling. "Old Jim's always around, though; always around when there's gold huntin' to do. Always around, old Jim is!" "Well, mosey on and pull your freight," snarled Dave. "We don't want you too close around. It's a free country, but keep to windward and out o' sight." "You don't like old Jim! Hee, hee! Don't none of 'em like old Jim! But Jim's here, a-huntin'--and most of them's dead that don't like him. Old Jim don't die! The other fellers dies!" "So I hears," said Dave, with meaning. He said no more, for Banker, without the slightest warning, shot him through the head. The horses plunged as the body dropped to the ground and Jim wheezed and cackled as he held his own beast down. "Hee, hee! They all of 'em dies, but old Jim don't die!" With a snort Dave's horse wheeled and galloped away up the canyon. The sound of his going frightened the prospector. He ceased to laugh, and cowered in his saddle, looking fearfully about him into the dim swirl of the snow. "Who's that?" he called. The deadly silence was unbroken. The old man shook his fist in the air and again broke into his frightful cursing. "I ain't afraid!" he yelled. "Damn you. I ain't afraid! You're all dead. You're dead, there; French Pete's dead, Sucatash Wallace's dead, Panamint's dead. But old Jim's alive! Old Jim'll find it. You bet you he will!" He bent his head and appeared to listen again. Then: "What's that? Who's singin'?" He fell to muttering again, quoting doggerel, whined out in an approach to a tune: "Louisiana--Louisiana Lou!" "Louisiana's dead!" he chuckled. "If he aint he better not come back. The gal's a-waitin' fer him. Louisiana what killed her pappy! Ha, ha! Louisiana killed French Pete!" He turned his horse and slowly, still muttering, began to haze his burros back down the canyon. "Old Jim's smart," he declaimed. "All same like an Injun, old Jim is! Come a-sneakin' up past the camp there and the gal never knew I was nigh. Went a-sneakin' past and seen his tracks goin' up the canyon. Just creeps along and rides up on him and now he's dead! All dead but the gal and old Jim! Old Jim don't die. The gal'll die, but not old Jim! She'll tell old Jim what she knows and then old Jim will find the gold." Through the muffling snow he pushed on until the faint glow of a fire came to him through the mist of snowflakes. A shadow flitted in front of it, and he stopped to chuckle evilly and mutter. Then he dismounted and walked up to the camp, where Solange busied herself in preparing supper. "That you, Monsieur David?" she called cheerily, as Jim's boots crunched the snow. Jim chuckled. "It's just me--old Jim, ma'am," he said, his voice oily and ingratiating. "Old Jim, come to see the gal of his old friend, Pete." Solange whirled. But Jim had sidled between her and the tent, where, just inside the flap, rested the rifle that Sucatash had left her.