It was in the midst of this depression, when, for the hundredth time, he had wished that his friend had never started out on his wild enterprise, that he suddenly found himself staring out across the river at the Spawn City trail. He stared for some moments, scarcely comprehending that at which he looked. Then suddenly he became aware of a horseman racing down the slope towards the river, and in a moment mind and body were alert, and he stood waiting. * * * * * Minky was still standing on his veranda. But he was no longer leaning against the post; he was holding a letter in his hand which he had just finished reading. It was a painful-looking document for all its neat, clear writing. It was stained with patches of dark red that were almost brown, and the envelope he held in his other hand was almost unrecognizable for the same hideous stain that completely covered it. The man who had delivered it was resting on the edge of the veranda. He had told his story; and now he sat chewing, and watching his weary horse tethered at the hitching-post a few yards away. "An' he drove that cart fer six hours--dead?" Minky asked, without removing his eyes from the blood-stained letter. "That's sure how I sed," returned the messenger, and went stolidly on with his chewing. The other breathed deeply. Then he read the letter over again. He read it slowly, so as to miss no word or meaning it might contain. And, curiously, as he read a feeling of wonder filled him at the excellence of the writing and composition. He did not seem to remember having seen Bill's writing before. And here the rough, hard-living gambler was displaying himself a man of considerable education. It was curious. All the years of their friendship had passed without him discovering that his gambling friend was anything but an illiterate ruffian of the West, with nothing but a great courage, a powerful personality and a moderately honest heart to recommend him. "My Dear Minky, "I'm dead--dead as mutton. Whether I'm cooked mutton, or raw, I can't just say. Anyway, I'm dead--or you wouldn't get this letter. "Now this letter is not to express regrets, or to sentimentalize. You'll agree that's not my way. Death doesn't worry me any. No, this letter is just a 'last will and testament,' as the lawyers have it. And I'm sending it to you because I know you'll see things fixed right for me. You see, I put everything into your hands for two reasons: you're honest, and you're my friend. Now, seeing you're rich and prosperous I leave you nothing out of my wad. But I'd like to hand you a present of my team--if they're still alive--team and harness and cart. And you'll know, seeing I always had a notion the sun, moon and stars rose and set in my horses, the spirit in which I give them to you, and the regard I had for our friendship. Be good to them, old friend.