I was wanderin' away to
the east, through that God-forsaken region known as 'Dead Man's Land.'
Travellin' along an Injun trail, I hit upon two men, with four dogs
packin' their loads. One was quite young, an' as fine a chap as I've
seen in many a day, while the other was of middle age, an' a most
wretched brute. How they got together, Heaven only knows, but thar
they was, hitched up in that desolate hole. They was on a kinder
wild-goose chase, so I l'arned. Some fool had been thar before, found
gold, made a map of the place, and then kicked the bucket.

"I saw at once thar was bad blood atween the two, an' I hated to leave
the lad alone with his beast of a pardner, fer I'd taken a fancy to the
kid. The mornin' I come away he accompanied me fer some distance.
When we was outer sight of the camp, he placed inter my hands this very
fiddle, wrapped in that old blanket. Thar was tears in his eyes when
he gave it to me.

"'Take it,' says he, 'I can't keep it. Bill kicks up sich a fuss, an'
claims that he packs all the stuff, while I tote the fiddle. Ye'll be
good to it, I'm sure, so good-bye.'

"With that, he was off, an' I never sot eyes on 'im agin. But thar I
was with that thing on me hands. What did I want with a fiddle? My
fingers are too stiff an' clumsy ever to l'arn, though I've not a bad
ear fer music, when it comes to that. Then, I had a long mush to make,
an' the fiddle would add much to me pack. At first I thought I'd throw
the thing away, but the sight of that poor lad with the tears in his
eyes, puttin' it so confidently like in me hands, was too much fer me.
So I brung her along, an' thar she is. Ain't she a beauty? It'll be
somethin' like old times if one of yez'll strike up, an' give us a few
tunes."

Silence reigned for a space after Pete had finished his story. The
violin was passed from hand to hand, though no one ventured to tune up
and strike bow to the strings.

"What! kin no one play?" exclaimed Pete in surprise, when the
instrument had gone the round. "Why, I have looked forward to this
occasion fer some time."

"I guess we're like yersel', Pete," replied Alec McPherson, "men of
action. Our fingers like your own are stiff and clumsy, better playing
wid the axe, pick, or trigger, than wid sich delicate pieces o'
cat-gut."

"Right yer are, man," assented Pete. "But I'm mighty disappinted,
nevertheless, fer I did want ter hear an old tune or two."

At this, Tim Craven, a fu