I will be dead when you find this. My name doesn’t matter. I leave nothing of value and I have no living relatives and no particular friends who interest me, or who would be interested in my death. But I have a simple request to make. The past five years have been the happiest in my life. And the happiest hours in those years were spent right in front of my door, where I could look out over the woods at sunset. It is my wish that I lie there.
It was signed merely, “Stranger.”
Miller gave his characteristic snort and tried the door. But the melting snows of early fall had frozen about the sill and the door wouldn’t move. He thrust his great shoulders against the thick panels, but still the door held fast. And he said, “No use. Can’t budge her. I’ll go down and fetch the ax.” There was in his voice a somewhat eager note. Steel understood why, and he disliked the man for it.
Presently the other was back with the implement and after hacking the ice away around the bottom, finally got the door loose. With a shove of his shoulders it flew open. He went in. Steel entered behind him.
It was a simple cabin, equipped with homemade furniture of rude yet serviceable design. On the one bunk that was built in against the wall opposite the door, the writer of the note lay, stiff with the cold. Steel went over and looked down upon the figure. He shook his head slowly.
“Too bad you had to die all alone that way,” he said, “It must have been pretty lonely for you during those last hours, old-timer.”
He heard Miller, who was standing behind him, give that snort of his, and somehow the sound got on Steel’s nerves, as any characteristic substitute for words will do if repeated often enough. Steel said, “Pretty tough, just the same, to pass out that way.” He turned and faced Miller. The bigger man had a rifle in his hands, eyeing it critically and working the breech.
“Little rusty,” Miller observed, “but she ain’t half bad. Better’n mine, anyhow. And—say, here’s something!”
The speaker went quickly to where a pair of Indian-made moccasins of finest moosehide stood on the floor near the long-neglected stove. They were, Steel saw, covered with glittering beads that were woven into strange, fantastic patterns. He had never seen a pair of moccasins like them, and he guessed that they must be rare.
Miller had picked one up. He now measured it against the sole of one of his own boots. “Say,” he exclaimed, “they’ll just fit me, and I’m here to say gear like them ain’t found every day.”