Mortimer FitzHugh was dead.

His bones lay under the slab up in that little blind canyon in the shadow of the Saw Tooth Mountain.

To-morrow he would tell Joanne.

And, blindly, he told himself that she would be glad.
Still whistling, he passed the Chinese laundry shack on the creek, crossed the railroad tracks, and buried himself in the bush beyond.

A quarter of an hour later he stole quietly into Stevens' camp and went to bed..