to lave in it, to swim it if need be, but to put it forever between him and the harrying shapes, to drown forever in its turbid depths the thronging spectres, to wash away in its yellow flood all stains and color of the past.  And now he was leaping from boulder to boulder, from blackened stump to stump, from gnarled bush to bush, caught for a moment and withheld by clinging vines, or plunging downward into dusty hollows, until, rolling, dropping, sliding, and stumbling, he reached the river-bank, whereon he fell, rose, staggered forward, and fell again with outstretched arms upon a rock that breasted the swift current.  And there he lay as dead.

A few stars came out hesitatingly above Deadwood Slope.  A cold wind that had sprung up with the going down of the sun fanned them into momentary brightness, swept the heated flanks of the mountain, and ruffled the river.  Where the fallen man lay there was a sharp curve in the stream, so that in the gathering shadows the rushing water seemed to leap out of the darkness and to vanish again.  Decayed drift-wood, trunks of trees, fragments of broken sluicing,—­the wash and waste of many a mile,—­swept into sight a moment, and were gone.  All of decay, wreck, and foulness gathered in the long circuit of mining-camp and settlement, all the dregs and refuse of a crude and wanton civilization, reappeared for an instant, and then were hurried away in the darkness and lost.  No wonder that as the wind ruffled the yellow waters the waves seemed to lift their unclean hands toward the rock whereon the fallen man lay, as if eager to snatch him from it, too, and hurry him toward the sea.

It was very still.  In the clear air a horn blown a mile away was heard distinctly.  The jingling of a spur and a laugh on the highway over Payne’s Ridge sounded clearly across the river.  The rattling of harness and hoofs foretold for many minutes the approach of the Wingdam coach, that at last, with flashing lights, passed within a few feet of the rock.  Then for an hour all again was quiet.  Presently the moon, round and full, lifted herself above the serried ridge and looked down upon the river.  At first the bared peak of Deadwood Hill gleamed white and skull-like.  Then the shadows of Payne’s Ridge cast on the slope slowly sank away, leaving the unshapely stumps, the dusty fissures, and clinging outcrop of Deadwood Slope to stand out in black and silver.  Still stealing softly downward, the moonlight touched the bank and the rock, and then glittered brightly on the river.  The rock was bare and the man was gone, but the river still hurried swiftly to the sea.

“Is there anything for me?” asked Tommy Islington, as, a week after, the stage drew up at the Mansion House, and Bill slowly entered the bar-room.  Bill did not reply, but, turning to a stranger who had entered with him, indicated with a jerk of his finger the boy.  The stranger turned with an air half of business, half of curiosity, and looked critically at Tommy.  “Is there anything for me?” repeated Tommy, a little confused at the silence and scrutiny.  Bill walked deliberately to the bar, and, placing his back against it, faced Tommy with a look of demure enjoyment.