was absent he took from his
breast-pocket the pistol, and examined it again with a knitted brow;
after which he locked it in a drawer of the desk, and resumed his
pipe.

At noon he sent the boy away, and, locking the office-door, turned his
face homeward. The town was awake now, or as much so as it was likely
to be. A few sleighs and sleds were standing before the doors of the
saloons, and it appeared to Dixon that an unwonted excitement
prevailed in and about "Buckey's," all the men visible being gathered
before the familiar red door, and all talking at once in even louder
tones than usual.

As Dixon came nearer, two of the men started forward and approached
him.

"We was jest a-comin' fur ye, Square," said the foremost. "Thar's a
stranger in thar as won't give no account of himself, an' we was
thinkin'----"

"Oh, quit foolin'," said the other, roughly. "It's nothing but a dead
tramp. That's all, Square," and he shifted his quid to the other side
of his mouth, composedly.

Dixon changed countenance. A little tremor ran through his frame.

"A tramp?" he repeated. "Dead?"

"Dead as a door-nail!" the man answered. "Froze brittle. Small an' his
boy found him this mornin' in Crosse's timber."

They started on, giving Dixon precedence. It appeared to the men that
he showed very small interest, and unaccountable deliberation. Even
when they had reached Buckey's, he mounted the steps slowly, standing
an instant with his hands on the latch, as if indifferent, or
reluctant. At last, with another impatient movement of the shoulders,
he opened the door and went in. The crowd of rough, bearded men who
filled the space between the counters and the stove, nodded
respectfully and fell back.

That which they had surrounded lay stretched stark and stiff upon the
bare floor. It was the body of a man which had been at some time
sturdy and strong. Now it was pinched and wasted, and clad in thin,
worn garments, and shoes that seemed ready to drop from the naked,
frost-bitten feet. The unkempt iron-gray hair and beard gave the face,
at first glance, a look of wildness, but, observing more closely, one
saw that the features, though heavy, were not uncomely, and wore a
look of extreme suffering, which even death had not been able to
efface.

"Looks like a Inglishman, eh, Square?" said one of the men present.

Dixon did not seem to have heard him. He stood looking down upon the
dead man without moving or speaking. The ashy ring