“There was at least three wagons burnt heah; I can tell that by the iron work I've found; but most of their loads must have been carried off, or else they was pretty nearly empty.” Jim received this information with stolid indifference; had the Missourian called him there to tell him that? “I wonder why they took the trouble to burn their wagons?” continued the Missourian. “You'd a thought if they had wanted to get shut of them they'd just left them.” And now Jim's ill-temper mastered him. “They was probably figuring on some damn fool happening along this way—” he began, but the Missourian cut him short. “They must have had you in mind then,” he said. “Hold on, Mr. Orphan, can you tell me why these heah parties pulled up to the top of this heah hill?” “To burn their wagons,” retorted Jim sarcastically. “Ain't that plain?” “And why did they want to burn their outfit?” “Because their stock had all give out; that's plain, ain't it?” said Jim promptly. “Exactly; and the stock gave out the minute the wagons was burnt; but I don't reckon you see anything curious in that,” retorted the Missourian triumphantly. While they were speaking, he had been pursuing his investigations in a constantly widening circle. Now he stepped quickly toward a shallow ditch the rains had cut in the south slope of the hill. Jim was at his side, and the two men came to a sudden pause on the bank of this ditch. “I guess it's a bundle of bedding—or clothes—” said Jim nervously, and with a tremor in his voice. “I reckon there's another guess coming to you,” said the Missourian as he cautiously slipped into the ditch. “I'd be careful if it was me. Maybe it was the cholera,” cautioned Jim. “Hell! I never thought of that!” and the Missourian sprang back to the bank. There was silence while they looked into each other's eyes. “Man, there was five of them!” said the Missourian at last in a hoarse, shocked whisper, and his bearded lips quivered. “I noticed a part of a shovel and a right good pick back by where the wagons was burnt; don't you reckon we could spare the time to heave this heah bank in on top of them—those damn buzzards—” “Look here, pardner, I'm all for getting out of this. I wouldn't expect any one to bury me if I up and died of the cholera,” said Jim. “I'm not so doggone sure it was the cholera; hand me that stick, I'm going to find out,” and he slid back into the ditch. He worked in silence with the stick for a moment while Jim watched spellbound, fearing to stay and yet not daring to leave, for their discovery had filled that wide solitude with a sudden chilling horror. “No, this gentleman's got a bullet hole in his head—that ain't the cholera.” There was another pause while the Missourian was busy with the stick; then perspiring but indefatigable he spoke once more.