n's Flat, at the foot of the rocky promontory now called
Cape Horn, I was familiar with the zigzag paths leading down that steep
precipice. One was generally used as a descent, the other as an ascent
from the canon below. I chose the latter, as being the freest from the
chance of observation. It required the greatest caution to thread the
narrow gorge; but I finally reached the rocky bench, about one thousand
feet below the grade of the railroad. It was now broad daylight, and I
commenced cautiously the search for Summerfield's body. There is quite
a dense undergrowth of shrubs thereabouts, lining the interstices of
the granite rocks so as to obscure the vision even at a short distance.
Brushing aside a thick manzanita bush, I beheld the dead man at the same
instant of time that another person arrived like an apparition upon
the spot. It was Bartholomew Graham, known as "Black Bart." We suddenly
confronted each other, the skeleton of Summerfield lying exactly between
us. Our recognition was mutual. Graham advanced, and I did the same; he
stretched out his hand and we greeted one another across the prostrate
corpse.

Before releasing my hand, Black Bart exclaimed in a hoarse whisper,
"Swear, Gillson, in the presence of the dead, that you will forever be
faithful, never betray me, and do exactly as I bid you, as long as you
live!"

I looked him full in the eye. Fate sat there, cold and remorseless as
stone. I hesitated; with his left hand he slightly raised the lapels of
his coat, and grasped the handle of a navy revolver.

"Swear!" again he cried.

As I gazed, his eyeballs assumed a greenish tint, and his brow darkened
into a scowl. "As your confederate," I answered, "never as your slave."

"Be it so!" was his only reply.

The body was lying upon its back, with the face upwards. The vultures
had despoiled the countenance of every vestige of flesh, and left the
sockets of the eyes empty. Snow and ice and rain had done their work
effectually upon the exposed surfaces of his clothing, and the eagles
had feasted upon the entrails. But underneath, the thick beaver cloth
had served to protect the flesh, and there were some decaying shreds
left of what had once been the terrible but accomplished Gregory
Summerfield. A glance told us all these things. But they did not
interest me so much as another spectacle, that almost froze my blood.
In the skeleton gripe of the right hand, interlaced within the clenched
bones, gleamed