Perplexed, they excused themselves and descended the slope, leaving Joan standing there in front of the assay office, and enjoying the picture of the canyon, with its border of working buildings on one side, and its scattered cabins, mess- and bunk-houses on the other, the huge waste dump towering away from the hoist, and filling the head of the canyon, and the sparkle of the stream below. "It's for you, all right," the packer insisted. "The Wells Fargo agent turned it over to me down in Goldpan, and said the money had been sent to pay me for bringin' it up here. I don't know what it is. It's stones of some kind." Still more perplexed, the partners ordered him to take his pack train around to the storage house, and Bill led the way while his partner climbed back up the hill, and rejoined Joan. He was showing her some of the assay slips from the green lead when they heard a loud call from the yard. It was Bill, beckoning. They went across to meet him. One of the hitches had been thrown, and the other burros stood expectantly waiting to be relieved of their burdens. "It's a tombstone," Bill said gravely. "It's for Bell's grave. The express receipt shows that it was sent by----" he hesitated for a moment, as if studying whether to use one name, or another, and then concluded--"The Lily." He pointed to a section of granite at their feet, and on its polished surface they read: Under this granite sleeps Bells Park, an engineer. Murdered in defense of his employers. Faithful when living, and faithful when dead, to the Croix d'Or and all those principles which make a worthy man. A sudden, overwhelming sadness seemed to descend upon them. Bill turned abruptly, and stepped across toward the boiler-house. The whistle sent out a long-drawn, booming call--the alarm signal for the mine. In all the stress of the Croix d'Or it was the first time that note had ever been used save in drill. The bells of the hoist arose into a jangling clamor. They heard the wheels of the cage whirl as it shot downward, the excited exclamations of men ascending, some of them with tools in hand, the running of a man's feet, emerging from the blacksmith's tunnel, the shout of the smith to his helper, and the labored running of the cook and waiter across the cinders of the yard. Bill slowly returned toward them. "We'll have to get you to land it up there," he said, waving his arm toward the cross high above. "Give us a hand here, will you? and we'll throw this hitch again."