the wilderness! That cook in the Buffalo Hump who
tried to knife him because he stubbed his toe against the coffee-pot,
and "Packsaddle Pete," who meant to brain him when they differed over
throwing the diamond hitch; and now Slim was dead because he had given a
handful of salt to the mountain sheep.

It did not seem to matter that Slim had said he meant to kill him,
anyhow, or that the way in which his malignant eyes had followed his
every movement took on new significance in the light of what had
happened. He blamed himself. He should have quit long ago. He should
have seen that Slim's ill-balanced mind needed only a trifle to shove it
over the edge. It had never seemed so still in the cabin even when Slim
was gone as it did now. Mechanically he set about getting supper, making
as much noise as he could.

But he was unable to eat after it was on the table before him. He drank
his coffee and stared at the bacon and cold biscuit a while, then washed
the dishes again. Slim seemed to be getting farther and farther away.

The storm outside had become a blizzard. Old Mother Westwind took to her
heels and the Boss of the Arctic raged. It occurred to Bruce that it
would be hard to bury Slim if the ground froze, and that reminded him
that perhaps Slim had "folks" who ought to know.

Bruce filled the stove, and shoved his bread in the oven; then he pulled
Slim's war bag from under the bunk and dumped the contents on the table,
hoping with all his heart that he would not find an address. He could
not imagine how his should find the words in which to tell them that he
had killed Slim.

There were neckties, samples of ore, a pair of silk suspenders, and a
miner's candlestick, one silk sock, a weasel skin, a copy of "The
Gadfly," and a box of quinine pills. No papers, no letters, not a single
clew to his identity. Bruce felt relief. Wait--what was this? He took
the bag by the corners, and a photographer's mailing case fell out. It
was addressed to Slim in Silver City, New Mexico, in a childish,
unformed hand.

He took out the picture and found himself smiling into the eyes that
smiled up into his. He knew intuitively that it was Slim's sister, yet
the resemblance was the faintest, and there was not a trace of his
meanness in her look.

He had been right in his conjecture, Slim _was_ "the runt of something
good." There was no mistaking the refinement and good breeding in the
girl's sweet face.

Slim had known better, yet n