In the uncertain light of that early hour, and in the change that had come over the settlement, he had to pause for a moment to recall where he stood.  The Sandy Bar of his recollection lay below him, nearer the river; the buildings around him were of later date and newer fashion.  As he strode toward the river, he noticed here a schoolhouse and there a church.  A little farther on, “The Sunny South” came in view, transformed into a restaurant, its gilding faded and its paint rubbed off.  He now knew where he was; and, running briskly down a declivity, crossed a ditch, and stood upon the lower boundary of the Amity Claim.

The gray mist was rising slowly from the river, clinging to the tree-tops and drifting up the mountain-side, until it was caught among those rocky altars, and held a sacrifice to the ascending sun.  At his feet the earth, cruelly gashed and scarred by his forgotten engines, had, since the old days, put on a show of greenness here and there, and now smiled forgivingly up at him, as if things were not so bad after all.  A few birds were bathing in the ditch with a pleasant suggestion of its being a new and special provision of nature, and a hare ran into an inverted sluice-box, as he approached, as if it were put there for that purpose.

He had not yet dared to look in a certain direction.  But the sun was now high enough to paint the little eminence on which the cabin stood.  In spite of his self-control, his heart beat faster as he raised his eyes toward it.  Its window and door were closed, no smoke came from its adobe chimney, but it was else unchanged.  When within a few yards of it, he picked up a broken shovel, and, shouldering it with a smile, strode toward the door and knocked.  There was no sound from within.  The smile died upon his lips as he nervously pushed the door open.

A figure started up angrily and came toward him,—­a figure whose bloodshot eyes suddenly fixed into a vacant stare, whose arms were at first outstretched and then thrown up in warning gesticulation,—­a figure that suddenly gasped, choked, and then fell forward in a fit.

But before he touched the ground, York had him out into the open air and sunshine.  In the struggle, both fell and rolled over on the ground.  But the next moment York was sitting up, holding the convulsed frame of his former partner on his knee, and wiping the foam from his inarticulate lips.  Gradually the tremor became less frequent, and then ceased; and the strong man lay unconscious in his arms.

For some moments York held him quietly thus, looking in his face.  Afar, the stroke of a wood-man’s axe—­a mere phantom of sound—­was all that broke the stillness.  High up the mountain, a wheeling hawk hung breathlessly above them.  And then came voices, and two men joined them.

“A fight?” No, a fit; and would they help him bring the sick man to the hotel?

And there, for a week, the stricken partner lay, unconscious of aught but the visions wrought by disease and fear.  On the eighth day, at sunrise, he rallied, and, opening his eyes, looked upon York, and pressed his hand; then he spoke:—­