Yet in a moment his suspicions were allayed.  Ben was evidently a prospector, just as he claimed to be, and was venturing forth to get his first “lay of the land.”  The latter continued up the draw, crossed a ridge, halted now and then in the manner of the wild creatures to see if he were being followed, and finally by a roundabout route returned to the lifeless form of his only friend.  The wolf still trotted in silence behind him.

The vivid morning light only revealed the crime in more dreadful detail.  The withered form lay huddled in the stained leaves; and Ben stood a long time beside it, in deep and wondering silence, even now scarcely able to believe the truth.  How strange it was that this old comrade could not waken and go on with him again!  But in a moment he remembered his work.

Slowly, laboriously, with little outward sign of the emotion that rent his heart, he dug a shallow grave He knew perfectly that this was a serious risk to his cause.  Should the murderer return for any purpose, to his dead, the grave would of course show that the body had been discovered and would put him on his guard against Ben.  Nevertheless, the latter could not leave these early remains to the doubtful mercy of the wilderness:  the agents of air and sun, and the wild beasts.

He threw the last clod and stood looking down at the upturned earth.  “Sleep good, old Ez,” he murmured in simple mass for the dead.  “I’ll do what you said.”

Then, at the head of the grave, he thrust the barrel of Ezram’s rifle into the ground, a monument grim as his own thoughts.  The last rite was completed; he was free to work now.  From now on he could devote every thought to the work in hand,—­the payment of his debts.

By the same roundabout route he circled back to his camp, cooked his meager lunch, and in the afternoon ventured forth again.  But he was prospecting in earnest this time, though the prospects that he sought were those of victory to his cause, rather than of gold.  He was seeking simply a good, general idea of the nature and geography of the country so that he might know better how to plan his attack.

His excursion took him at last to the wooded bank of the river.  He stood a long time, quite motionless, listening to the water voices that only the wise can understand.  This was really a noble stream.  It flowed with such grandeur in its silence and solitude; old and gray and austere, it was a mighty expression of wilderness power,—­resistless, immortal, eternally secretive.  The waters flowed darkly, icy cold from the melting snow; but like a sleeping giant they would be quick to seize upon and destroy such as would try to brave their currents, likely never to yield them up again.  Flowing forever through the uninhabited forest no man would ever know the fate of those the river claimed.

He was above the camp when he descended to its banks, but he worked his way down through the thickets toward Jeffery Neilson’s cabin.  The river flowed quietly here, a long, still stretch that afforded safe boating.  Yet the smooth waters did not in the least alleviate Ben’s haunting sense of their sinister power and peril.  The old gray she-wolf is not to be trusted in her peaceful moments.  His keen ears could distinctly hear the roar and rumble of wild waters, just below.