“I—” he began in a faltering way, but Mr. Cook raised his hand as if to stop him and nodded toward a man who had just appeared.
“Wooley,” said Mr. Cook, “let’s go out to old Utah Banning’s place and see how he’s gettin’ along.”
Marshal Wooley was a man much after the style of Sink Weston. A few minutes later the two men and Roy were in front of the broken-down prospector’s hut. It was dark and still inside. The officer of the law struck a match. Roy was at a sashless window, and the two men crowded into the half open door. A close, sooty smell greeted the boy’s nostrils. As the match flared up, he saw a dirty pallet in a far corner of the room. It was empty. But, in the opposite corner, his head in the cold ashes of a fireplace, was Banning.
The old man was dead. Another match flared up. But there was little need for examination. Mr. Cook sank on his knee beside the shriveled corpse, and in the light of another match, tried to bring the extended legs and arms together. Then he rose, closed the door and walked away in silence.
“Bumped hisself on the awnin’ post, I understan’,” suggested the marshal as the three made their way back toward the center of the town.
“So I’m told,” said Mr. Cook. “Used to be a Mormon, didn’t he?”
The marshal grunted an assent. Then he added:
“Ain’t none o’ his religion ’round hyar to give him no burial, though.”
Mr. Cook had not lost his cigar. It glowed in the darkness and then Roy heard the smoker say: