Reading the eyes and mouth together one perceived gentleness and sternness to be well matched, working to any given end in amiable and effective compromise. "Uncle Peter" he had long been called by the public that knew him, and his own grandchildren had come to call him by the same term, finding him too young to meet their ideal of a grandfather. Billy Brue, riding up the trail, halted, nodded, and was silent. The old man returned his salutation as briefly. These things by men who stay much alone come to be managed with verbal economy. They would talk presently, but greetings were awkward. Billy Brue took one foot from its stirrup and turned in his saddle, pulling the leg up to a restful position. Then he spat, musingly, and looked back down the canyon aimlessly, throwing his eyes from side to side where the grey granite ledges showed through the tall spruce and pine trees. But the old man knew he had been sent for. "Well, Billy Brue,--what's doin'?" Billy Brue squirmed in the saddle, spat again, as with sudden resolve, and said: "Why,--uh--Dan'l J.--_he's_ dead." The old man repeated the words, dazedly. "Dan'l J.--_he's_ dead;--why, who else is dead, too?" Billy Brue's emphasis, cunningly contrived by him to avoid giving prominence to the word "dead," had suggested this inquiry in the first moment of stupefaction. "Nobody else dead--jest Dan'l J.--_he's_ dead." "Jest Dan'l J.--my boy--my boy Dan'l dead!" His mighty shape was stricken with a curious rigidity, erected there as if it were a part of the mountain, flung up of old from the earth's inner tragedy, confounded, desolate, ancient. [Illustration: "'_WELL, BILLY BRUE, WHAT'S DOIN_'?'"] Billy Brue turned from the stony interrogation of his eyes and took a few steps away, waiting. A little wind sprang up among the higher trees, the moments passed, and still the great figure stood transfixed in its curious silence. The leathers creaked as the horse turned. The messenger, with an air of surveying the canyon, stole an anxious glance at the old face. The sorrowful old eyes were fixed on things that were not; they looked vaguely as if in search. "Dan'l!" he said. It was not a cry; there was nothing plaintive in it. It was only the old man calling his son: David calling upon Absalom. Then there was a change. He came sternly forward. "Who killed my boy?" "Nobody, Uncle Peter; 'twas a stroke. He was goin' over the line and they'd laid out at Kaslo fer a day so's Dan'l J. could see about a spur the 'Lucky Cuss' people wanted--and maybe it was the climbin' brought it on." The old man looked his years. As he came nearer Billy Brue saw tears tremble in his eyes and roll unnoted down his cheeks. Yet his voice was unbroken and he was, indeed, unconscious of the tears. "I was afraid of that. He lived too high. He et too much and he drank too much and was too soft--was Dan'l.--too soft--"