IT WAS the first time Tom had ever looked upon a man who had met a violent death, and the sight impressed him deeply.

The two men were fairly well dressed, apparently between thirty and forty years of age, not unlike the average emigrant of those days, who left a comfortable home in the East to seek his fortune in the far West.

“How long since this happened, doctor?” asked Peter Brush, soberly.

He naturally deferred in this matter to the superior judgment of a physician.

Dr. Lycurgus Spooner dismounted from his horse and examined the unfortunate victims of Indian barbarity with a professional eye.

“Not many hours,” he answered, briefly.

“Then the plaguy redskins are not far away?”

“Probably not,” answered the doctor. “In fact, only a few miles back I fell in with a party who had a narrow escape from the red rascals.”

“I wonder we did not meet them.”

“They took a more northerly course than you are doing.”

“But you met them?”

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“I struck to the south after meeting them, partly because I thought in that way I should get further away from the Indians. It seems, however, from this sad sight, that the red devils have been in this neighborhood.”

“What shall we do?” queried Brush, doubtfully. “I don’t care to meet them, nor Tom here I reckon.”

“We may as well push on, but it will be best to keep a good lookout on all sides.”

“Trust me for that. I’ve got a good pair of eyes, and I won’t run afoul of them if I can help it.”

“Have you any objection to my company?” asked Dr. Spooner.

“Not a mite. I shall be glad to have you hitch horses with our’n. Can you fight?”

“I have done it before now.”

“Then, if we are attacked, you will stand by us?”

“You may rely upon me.”

“Then you are welcome. By the way, doctor, I ain’t curious, that is, not uncommon curious, but I do wonder why you, a doctor, are roamin’ round in these diggin’s?”

“You think I would be better off attending my patients at home, I suppose?”

“Just so.”

“But suppose the choice lies between a grave in the East, and a wandering life of privation in the West, what do you say, then?”

“Who wanted to kill you at the East?” asked Peter Brush, bluntly.

“Consumption, my friend. I inherit a tendency to that fatal disease. My mother died of it. Her mother168 died of it, and several other relations have in turn fallen victims to the scourge of the Atlantic Coast. Well, when I found the seeds ripening in my own system, and nature’s warning becoming only too plain, I took the hint. I knew there was only one course to take. I must abandon the East, and my flourishing practice, must give up furnace-heated houses, and live out of doors far away from the fatal east winds. It was a great sacrifice, for I was a successful physician, and I liked the life of towns, and the culture and advantages of Eastern civilization, but life was precious, and I did not hesitate.”

“How long ago was that, doctor?” asked Mr. Brush.

“Six years ago. I went across the plains to California. There I made some money and returned, but I could not stay long, for my old symptoms began to come back. I resumed my wanderings, and have spent more or less of the time since on the plains.”

“And how’s your health?”

“There’s a good deal of life in me yet, though I don’t look rugged.”

Indeed the doctor, with his slim, hollow ............