“What? Supposed! Supposing I say there was such a woman--my own wife, sir--my bar sinister--my cross that has ruined my life and made me doubt God and man and woman for half a century. And this half coin! I vowed I’d have it back. When at old Fort Bridger I got word that _she_ had deserted me--deserted me for a scoundrelly half-breed--I swore that I’d trail her down till I got back the only bond between us. It’s been my passion; it’s been something to live for. That was 1867; this is 1920. I am seventy-four years of age. I have covered the West, and cursed women while cursing her. And to what end? This forsaken spot, a mess of bones, and no word! Oh, God! I thought I didn’t care--she deserved the worst that could happen to her. This is the keepsake token. Yes. But where is she? I loved her. I want to know.” He shut his face in his quivering hands. I put my hand upon his shoulder. “Come, come,” said I. “The half of the coin and the half of the story have been yours. Shall I tell you the other half of the story, to match this other half of the coin? It says ‘Till We Meet Again’, remember.” Then he faced me once more. “We halved the coin when we parted in the States, I for Fort Bridger as a government clerk there, she to wait till I should send for her. Yes, yes. Fifty and more years ago. ‘Till We Meet Again’! And mine: ‘God Be With You’! Ah! What do you know? How can you stand and tell me of _her_? Did you ever see her--did you ever see her?” He clutched me by the arm. “Did you ever see her, that hussy, that scarlet woman, that--that--yes, and my own wife who made me lose faith in woman, man, and God; took my youth from me, sent me wandering about without home and without charity? Curse her! The end of the trail, and what do I find? Dry bones. Whose bones?” He faltered, and he implored, simply: “You guessed? You’re too young to have been on the plains in those days. Did you know _him_?” “Pierre Lavelle?” “Ah!” he quavered. He dashed down the half coin. “Are you going to tell me these bones are his? No, no! Such men as he live long. And this keepsake! Tell me she died miserably; that will be something. You did know him? You did? Or do you dare to allege you can rebuild a past, from this dungheap? What?” “You wrong her, Mr. Brown,” I answered. “I never knew Lavelle, never saw him, I never knew her--I do not even know her name, except by yours. But----” “Catherine,” he murmured. “Kitty. A beautiful girl, and false as hell.” “You wrong her,” I repeated. “You wrong these poor bones. Will you listen?” “Go on.” He steadied himself. “They won’t speak. Can you?” “I’ll speak for them,” I continued. “In 1867 a government wagon train was en route from Leavenworth for old Fort Bridger of Utah.” “Very likely,” he sneered. “There was a young wife with it, to join her husband at the post. And there was a train attaché named Pierre Lavelle, half Spanish and half Indian--a handsome scoundrel.” “I’ll take your word for that.”