the strong man lay unconscious in his arms.
For some moments York held him quietly thus, looking in his face. Afar,
the stroke of a wood-man's axe--a mere phantom of sound--was all
that broke the stillness. High up the mountain, a wheeling hawk hung
breathlessly above them. And then came voices, and two men joined them.
"A fight?" No, a fit; and would they help him bring the sick man to the
hotel?
And there, for a week, the stricken partner lay, unconscious of aught
but the visions wrought by disease and fear. On the eighth day, at
sunrise, he rallied, and, opening his eyes, looked upon York, and
pressed his hand; then he spoke:--
"And it's you. I thought it was only whiskey."
York replied by taking both of his hands, boyishly working them backward
and forward, as his elbow rested on the bed, with a pleasant smile.
"And you've been abroad. How did you like Paris?"
"So, so. How did YOU like Sacramento?"
"Bully."
And that was all they could think to say. Presently Scott opened his
eyes again.
"I'm mighty weak."
"You'll get better soon."
"Not much."
A long silence followed, in which they could hear the sounds of
wood-chopping, and that Sandy Bar was already astir for the coming
day. Then Scott slowly and with difficulty turned his face to York, and
said,--
"I might hev killed you once."
"I wish you had."
They pressed each other's hands again, but Scott's grasp was evidently
failing. He seemed to summon his energies for a special effort.
"Old man!"
"Old chap."
"Closer!"
York bent his head toward the slowly fading face.
"Do ye mind that morning?"
"Yes."
A gleam of fun slid into the corner of Scott's blue eye, as he
whispered,--
"Old man, thar WAS too much saleratus in that bread."
It is said that these were his last words. For when the sun, which had
so often gone down upon the idle wrath of these foolish men, looked
again upon them reunited, it saw the hand of Scott fall cold and
irresponsive from the yearning clasp of his former partner, and it knew
that the feud of Sandy Bar was at an end.
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