CHAPTER III
THE GRAVE IN THE SNOW
The sun of the short winter day was touching the mountain peaks, and slowly stealing down their rugged sides, as Keith emerged from the cabin bearing the cold body of the unknown man. He had a sacred task to perform, and he would not leave the place till all was completed. He had no winding sheet, no coffin in which to lay that silent form. A deep hole dug in the snow with the point of a snow-shoe, was grave and coffin combined, while the same soft, yielding snow spread tenderly over the body was the only winding sheet.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord." How weird and strangely hollow sounded his voice in that lonely place, as he repeated from memory some of the beautiful sentences of the Burial Service of the Church of England. There were none to respond, none to weep, and none to lay fresh flowers upon that snowy mound. There was one mourner, however; the lean dog, silent and wistful, crouching near. At times he glanced up into the speaker's face, as if trying to comprehend the meaning of the words.
"Poor dumb brute," said Keith, when the prayers were over, "you are faithful to the last. While this man was deserted, left here to die, you did what you could to save him. For this, Brisko, old boy, you shall have a home with me, or, I should say, an abiding place, for I hardly know the meaning of the word home."
Before leaving the cabin, Keith had searched long and carefully for some clue as to the dead man's identity. There was only the little locket, which he felt might some day help to explain the matter. Reluctantly he had unclosed the cold, stiff fingers from the slender string, and fastened the trinket around his own neck as the best place where it could be safely guarded.
When the body was well covered he sought for some way to mark the spot. A stick would stand but a short time; something else must serve. Presently an idea occurred to him. Near the grave a huge rock lifted itself several feet into the air, with a side so smooth and perpendicular that no snow could rest upon its surface. Going at once to the cabin, he brought forth the dead man's camping axe, and with the dull blade began to cut into the solid rock.
"Yes," he muttered to himself, "you shall have as solid and grand a monument as the world can afford. The grave is not pretty, I admit, and no hand will lay flowers over you. But this stone will not tumble down till the finger of God touches it, and, I think," he added after a pause, "with this mark upon it He'll let it stand till the Judgment Day."
The mark was a large cross, not artistically done, but cut deep into the hard surface to withstand the wear of years. Beneath this he simply placed the two letters "K. R."
"Not too bad," he remarked, as he stepped back to view his handiwork. "It's the best I can do with such a rough tool, and I think she would be pleased to know that something marks the spot where he is lying."