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It was scarcely thirty feet from the road. The only object that met Cass’s eye was a man’s stiff, tall hat, lying emptily and vacantly in the grass. It was new, shiny, and of modish shape. But it was so incongruous, so perkily smart, and yet so feeble and helpless lying there, so ghastly ludicrous in its very appropriateness and incapacity to adjust itself to the surrounding landscape, that it affected him with something more than a sense of its grotesqueness, and he could only stare at it blankly.

“But you’re not looking the right way,” the girl went on sharply; “look there!”

Cass followed the direction of her whip. At last, what might have seemed a coat thrown carelessly on the ground met his eye, but presently he became aware of a white, rigid, aimlessly-clinched hand protruding from the flaccid sleeve; mingled with it in some absurd way and half hidden by the grass, lay what might have been a pair of cast-off trousers but for two rigid boots that pointed in opposite angles to the sky. It was a dead man. So palpably dead that life seemed to have taken flight from his very clothes. So impotent, feeble, and degraded by them that the naked subject of a dissecting table would have been less insulting to humanity. The head had fallen back, and was partly hidden in a gopher burrow, but the white, upturned face and closed eyes had less of helpless death in them than those wretched enwrappings. Indeed, one limp hand that lay across the swollen abdomen lent itself to the grotesquely hideous suggestion of a gentleman sleeping off the excesses of a hearty dinner.

“Ain’t he horrid?” continued the girl; “but what killed him?”

Struggling between a certain fascination at the girl’s cold-blooded curiosity and horror of the murdered man, Cass hesitatingly lifted the helpless head. A bluish hole above the right temple, and a few brown paint-like spots on the forehead, shirt cellar, and matted hair proved the only record.

“Turn him over again,” said the girl, impatiently, as Cass was about to relinquish his burden. “May be you’ll find another wound.”

But Cass was dimly remembering certain formalities that in older civilizations attend the discovery of dead bodies, and postponed a present inquest.

“Perhaps you’d better ride on, Miss, afore you get summoned as a witness. I’ll give warning at Red Chief’s Crossing, and send the coroner down here.”

“Let me go with you,” she said, earnestly, “it would be such fun. I don’t mind being a witness. Or,” she added, without heeding Cass’s look of astonishment, “I’ll wait here till you come back.”

“But you see, Miss, it wouldn’t seem right–” began Cass.

“But I found him first,” interrupted the girl, with a pout.

Staggered by this preemptive right, sacred to all miners, Cass stopped.

“Who is the coroner?” she asked.

“Joe Hornsby.”

“The tall, lame man, who was half eaten by a grizzly?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look now! I’ll ride on and bring him back in half an hour. There!”

“But, Miss–!”

“Oh, don’t mind ME. I never saw anything of this kind before, and I want to see it ALL.”

“Do you know Hornsby?” asked Cass, unconsciously a trifle irritated.

“No, but I’ll bring him.” She wheeled her horse into the road.

In the presence of this living energy Cass quite forgot the helpless dead. “Have you been long in these parts, Miss?” he asked.

“About two weeks,” she answered, shortly. “Good-by, just now. Look around for the pistol or anything else you can find, although I have been over the whole ground twice already.”

A little puff of dust as the horse sprang into the road, a muffled shuffle, struggle, then the regular beat of hoofs, and she was gone.

After five minutes had passed, Cass regretted that he had not accompanied her; waiting in such a spot was an irksome task. Not that there was anything in the scene itself to awaken gloomy imaginings; the bright, truthful Californian sunshine scoffed at any illusion of creeping shadows or waving branches. Once, in the rising wind, the empty hat rolled over–but only in a ludicrous, drunken way. A search for any further sign or token had proved futile, and Cass grew impatient. He began to hate himself for having stayed; he would have fled but for shame. Nor was his good humor restored when at the close of a weary half hour two galloping figures emerged from the dusty horizon–Hornsby and the young girl.