But he was unable to eat after it was on the table before him. He drank his coffee and stared at the bacon and cold biscuit a while, then washed the dishes again. Slim seemed to be getting farther and farther away. The storm outside had become a blizzard. Old Mother Westwind took to her heels and the Boss of the Arctic raged. It occurred to Bruce that it would be hard to bury Slim if the ground froze, and that reminded him that perhaps Slim had "folks" who ought to know. Bruce filled the stove, and shoved his bread in the oven; then he pulled Slim's war bag from under the bunk and dumped the contents on the table, hoping with all his heart that he would not find an address. He could not imagine how his should find the words in which to tell them that he had killed Slim. There were neckties, samples of ore, a pair of silk suspenders, and a miner's candlestick, one silk sock, a weasel skin, a copy of "The Gadfly," and a box of quinine pills. No papers, no letters, not a single clew to his identity. Bruce felt relief. Wait--what was this? He took the bag by the corners, and a photographer's mailing case fell out. It was addressed to Slim in Silver City, New Mexico, in a childish, unformed hand. He took out the picture and found himself smiling into the eyes that smiled up into his. He knew intuitively that it was Slim's sister, yet the resemblance was the faintest, and there was not a trace of his meanness in her look. He had been right in his conjecture, Slim _was_ "the runt of something good." There was no mistaking the refinement and good breeding in the girl's sweet face. Slim had known better, yet nearly always he had talked in the language of the uneducated Westerner, in the jargon of yeggmen, and the vernacular of the professional tramps with whom he had hoboed over the West--a "gay cat," as he was pleased to call himself, when boasting of the "toughness" of his life. He had affected uncleanliness, uncouthness; but in spite of his efforts the glimmer of the "something good" of which he was the runt had shown through. Slim had had specific knowledge of a world which Bruce knew only by hearsay; and when it had suited his purpose, as when Bruce had first met him in Meadows, he had talked correctly, even brilliantly, and he had had an undeniable charm of manner for men and women alike. But, once well started down the river, he had thrown off all restraint, ignoring completely the silent code which exists between partners in the hills. Such fellows were well named "black sheep," Bruce thought, as he looked at the picture. A letter had been wrapped around the photograph, with an address and a date line twelve years old. The letter read: