he uttered in my hearing was a coarse jest which I did
not like and to which I made no reply.

In his pocket the coroner found a letter wherein he had written,
"Bury me right here where I failed, here on the bank of the river."
It contained also a message to his wife and children in the States.
There were tragic splashes of red on the trail, murder, and violent
death by animals and by swift waters. Now here at the end of the
trail was a suicide.

So this is the end of the trail to him--
To swing at the tail of a rope and die;
Making a chapter gray and grim,
Adding a ghost to the midnight sky?
He toiled for days on the icy way,
He slept at night on the wind-swept snow;
Now here he hangs in the morning's gray,
A grisly shape by the river's flow.

It was just two weeks later when I put the bridle and saddle on
Ladrone and rode him down the trail. His heart was light as mine, and
he had gained some part of his firm, proud, leaping walk. He had
confidence in the earth once more. This was the first firm stretch of
road he had trod for many weeks. He was now to take the boat for the
outside world.

There was an element of sadness in the parting between Ladrone and
the train he had led for so many miles. As we saddled up for the last
time he stood waiting. The horses had fared together for ninety days.
They had "lined up" nearly two hundred times, and now for the last
time I called out: "Line up, boys! Line up! Heke! Heke!"

Ladrone swung into the trail. Behind him came "Barney," next "Major,"
then sturdy "Bay Bill," and lastly "Nibbles," the pony. For the last
time they were to follow their swift gray leader, who was going
south to live at ease, while they must begin again the ascent of the
trail.

Ladrone whinnied piteously for his mates as I led him aboard the
steamer, but they did not answer. They were patiently waiting their
master's signal. Never again would they set eyes on the stately gray
leader who was bound to most adventurous things. Never again would
they see the green grass come on the hills.

I had a feeling that I could go on living this way, leading a pack
train across the country indefinitely. It seemed somehow as though
this way of life, this routine, must continue. I had a deep interest
in the four horses, and it was not without a feeling of guilt that I
saw them move away on their last trail. At bottom the end of every
horse is tragic. Death comes sooner or later,