The lean long figure of the lounger propped itself upon its elbow. Curiously enough, lazy as he was, the smallest matter interested him. Had he suddenly discovered a beetle moving on the veranda he would have found food for reflection in its doings. Such was his mind. A smile stole into his indolent eyes, a lazy smile which spoke of tolerant good-humor. He turned so that his voice might carry in through the window which was just behind him. "Say, Bill," he cried, "here's Zip comin' down the trail." As though his announcement were sufficient to rouse an equal interest in those inside the store, he returned again to his contemplation of the approaching figure. "What's he doin' around camp this hour?" inquired a harsh voice from beyond the window. "Guess I ain't a lightnin' calc'lator," observed Sunny, without withdrawing his gaze. "Nope," came the prompt retort from the invisible speaker; "guess it 'ud keep you busy trackin' a fun'ral." "Which don't need contradiction! I'm kind o' makin' holiday these times. Guess you ain't never heerd tell o' the 'rest cure'?" A rough laugh broke on the drowsy atmosphere. "Sunny's overworked just now," said another voice, amidst the rattle of poker chips. "Wher' you bin workin', Sunny?" inquired the harsh voice of the man addressed as Bill. "Workin'!" cried the loafer, with good-natured scorn. "Say, I don't never let a hobby interfere with the bizness of life." A half-smothered laugh answered him. Even the exigencies of a poker hand could not quite crush out the natural humor of these men, who always followed on the golden trail of the pioneers. "Say, what's your bizness?" demanded another voice presently. "Restin'!" the man on the veranda answered easily. The shuffle of cards and rattle of chips came with a snigger. And the answering lazy smile of Sunny Oak was good to see. It lit his unshaven face from his unwashed brow to his chin. And to an onlooker it might well have appeared a pity that an intense bodily indolence should so dominate his personality. He looked vastly capable, both mentally and physically. But his eyes never left the on-coming Scipio. The little man moved with bowed head and trailing footsteps. The utter dispiritedness of his gait stirred even the self-centered watcher. But Scipio saw nothing of Sunny Oak. He saw nothing of anything but the despairing picture in his own mind. The ramshackle shanties which lined one side of the trail were passed unheeded. The yapping of the camp dogs at the unusual sight of so deplorable a figure at this hour of the day was quite unnoticed by him. The shelving rise of attenuated grassland which blocked the view of Suffering Creek on his left never for a moment came into his focus. His eyes were on the trail ahead of him, and never more than a few feet from where he trod. And those eyes were hot and staring, aching with their concentration upon the hideous picture which filled his brain.