"Look at that, lads. Ain't she a beauty?" and Pete ran his fingers over the smooth surface.
"Where in the deuce did you strike that?" was the wondering comment of the others.
"Oh, she's a history, which mebbe ye'd like to hear."
"Sure, let's have it," and the men moved a little nearer, lighted their pipes afresh, crossed their legs, and settled down in anticipation of a good yarn.
"Waal, it's this way," Pete began. "Last Fall, I was wanderin' away to the east, through that God-forsaken region known as 'Dead Man's Land.' Travellin' along an Injun trail, I hit upon two men, with four dogs packin' their loads. One was quite young, an' as fine a chap as I've seen in many a day, while the other was of middle age, an' a most wretched brute. How they got together, Heaven only knows, but thar they was, hitched up in that desolate hole. They was on a kinder wild-goose chase, so I l'arned. Some fool had been thar before, found gold, made a map of the place, and then kicked the bucket.
"I saw at once thar was bad blood atween the two, an' I hated to leave the lad alone with his beast of a pardner, fer I'd taken a fancy to the kid. The mornin' I come away he accompanied me fer some distance. When we was outer sight of the camp, he placed inter my hands this very fiddle, wrapped in that old blanket. Thar was tears in his eyes when he gave it to me.
"'Take it,' says he, 'I can't keep it. Bill kicks up sich a fuss, an' claims that he packs all the stuff, while I tote the fiddle. Ye'll be good to it, I'm sure, so good-bye.'
"With that, he was off, an' I never sot eyes on 'im agin. But thar I was with that thing on me hands. What did I want with a fiddle? My fingers are too stiff an' clumsy ever to l'arn, though I've not a bad ear fer music, when it comes to that. Then, I had a long mush to make, an' the fiddle would add much to me pack. At first I thought I'd throw the thing away, but the sight of that poor lad with the tears in his eyes, puttin' it so confidently like in me hands, was too much fer me. So I brung her along, an' thar she is. Ain't she a beauty? It'll be somethin' like old times if one of yez'll strike up, an' give us a few tunes."
Silence reigned for a space after Pete had finished his story. The violin was passed from hand to hand, though no one ventured to tune up and strike bow to the strings.
"What! kin no one play?" exclaimed Pete in surprise, when the instrument had gone the round. "Why, I have looked forward to this occasion fer some time."