Again there was a long moment of silence, while Harry stood pawing at his mustache and while Robert Fairchild sought to summon the strength to do the thing which was before him. It had been comparatively easy to make resolutions while there still was hope. It was a far different matter now. All the soddenness of the old days had come back to him, ghosts which would not be driven away; memories of a time when he was the grubbing, though willing slave of a victim of fear,-of a man whose life had been wrecked through terror of the day when intruders would break their way through the debris, and when the discovery would be made. And it had remained for Robert Fairchild, the son, to find the hidden secret, for him to come upon the thing which had caused the agony of nearly thirty years of suffering, for him to face the alternative of again placing that gruesome find into hiding, or to square his shoulders before the world and take the consequences. Murder is not an easy word to hear, whether it rests upon one’s own shoulders, or upon the memory of a person beloved. And right now Robert Fairchild felt himself sagging beneath the weight of the accusation.

But there was no time to lose in making his decision. Beside him stood Harry, silent, morose. Before him,-Fairchild closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out the sight of it. But still it was there, the crumpled heap of tattered clothing and human remains, the awry, heavy shoes still shielding the fleshless bones of the feet. He turned blindly, his hands groping before him.

“Harry,” he called, “Harry! Get me out of here-I-can’t stand it!”

Wordlessly the big man came to his side. Wordlessly they made the trip back to the hole in the cave-in and then followed the trail of new-laid track to the shaft. Up-up-the trip seemed endless as they jerked and pulled on the weighted rope, that their shaft bucket might travel to the surface. Then, at the mouth of the tunnel, Robert Fairchild stood for a long time staring out over the soft hills and the radiance of the snowy range, far away. It gave him a new strength, a new determination. The light, the sunshine, the soft outlines of the scrub pines in the distance, the freedom and openness of the mountains seemed to instill into him a courage he could not feel down there in the dampness and darkness of the tunnel. His shoulders surged, as though to shake off a great weight. His eyes brightened with resolution. Then he turned to the faithful Harry, waiting in the background.

“There’s no use trying to evade anything, Harry. We ’ve got to face the music. Will you go with me to notify the coroner-or would you rather stay here?”

“I ’ll go.”

Silently they trudged into town and to the little undertaking shop which also served as the office of the coroner. They made their report, then accompanied the officer, together with the sheriff, back to the mine and into the drift. There once more they clambered through the hole in the cave-in and on toward the beginning of the stope. And there they pointed out their discovery.

A wait for the remainder of that day,-a day that seemed ages long, a day in which Robert Fairchild found himself facing the editor of the Bugle, and telling his story, Harry beside him. But he told only what he had found, nothing of the past, nothing of the white-haired man who had waited by the window, cringing at the slightest sound on the old, vine-clad veranda, nothing of the letter which he had found in the dusty safe. Nothing was asked regarding that; nothing could be gained by telling it. In the heart of Robert Fairchild was the conviction that somehow, some way, his father was innocent, and in his brain was a determination to fight for that innocence as long as it was humanly possible. But gossip told what he did not.

There were those who remembered the departure of Thornton Fairchild from Ohadi. There were others who recollected perfectly that in the center of the rig was a singing, maudlin man, apparently “Sissie” Larsen. And they asked questions. They cornered Harry, they shot their queries at him one after another. But Harry was adamant.

“I ain’t got anything to sye! And there’s an end to it!”

Then, forcing his way past them, he crossed the street and went up the worn steps to the little office of Randolph P. Farrell, with his grinning smile and his horn-rimmed glasses, there to tell what he knew,-and to ask advice. And with the information the happy-go-lucky look faded, while Fairchild, entering behind Harry, heard a verdict which momentarily seemed to stop his heart.

“It means, Harry, that you were accessory to a crime-if this was a murder. You knew that something had happened. You helped without asking questions. And if it can be proved a murder-well,” and he drummed on his desk with the end of his pencil-“there ’s no statute of limitations when the end of a human life is concerned!”

Only a moment Harry hesitated. Then:

“I ’ll tell the truth-if they ask me.”

“When?” The lawyer was bending forward.

“At the inquest. Ain’t that what you call it?”

“You’ll tell nothing. Understand? You’ll tell nothing, other than that you, with Robert Fairchild, found that skeleton. An inquest is n’t a trial. And that can’t come without knowledge and evidence that this man was murdered. So, remember-you tell the coroner’s jury that you found this body and nothing more!”

“But-”

“It’s a case for the grand jury after that, to study the findings of the coroner’s jury and to sift out what evidence comes to it.”

“You mean-” This time it was Fairchild cutting in-“that if the coroner’s jury cannot find evidence that this man was murdered, or something more than mere supposition to base a charge on-there ’ll be no trouble for Harry?”

“It’s very improbable. So tell what happened on this day of this year of our Lord and nothing more! You people almost had me scared myself for a minute. Now, get out of here and let a legal light shine without any more clouds for a few minutes.”

They departed then and traveled down the stairs with far more spring in their step than when they had entered. Late that night, as they were engaged at their usual occupation of relating the varied happenings of the day to Mother Howard, there came a knock at the door. Instinctively, Fairchild bent toward her:

“Your name ’s out of this-as long as possible.”

She smiled in her mothering, knowing way. Then she opened the door, there to find a deputy from the sheriff’s office.

“They ’ve impaneled a jury up at the courthouse,” he announced. “The coroner wants Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Harkins to come up there and tell what they know about this here skeleton they found.”

It was the expected. The two men went forth, to find the street about the courthouse thronged, for already the news of the finding of the skeleton had traveled far, even into the little mining camps which skirted the town. It was a mystery of years long agone, and as such it fascinated and lured, in far greater measure perhaps, than some murder of a present day. Everywhere were black crowds under the faint street lamps. The basement of the courthouse was illuminated; and there were clusters of curious persons about the stairways. Through the throngs started Harry and Fairchild, only to be drawn aside by Farrell, the attorney.

“I ’m not going to take a part in this unless I have to,” he told them. “It will look better for you if it is n’t necessary for me to make an appearance. Whatever you do,” and he addressed Harry, “say nothing about what you were telling me this afternoon. In the first place, you yourself have no actual knowledge of what happened. How do you know but what Thornton Fairchild was attacked by this man and forced to kill in self-defense? It’s a penitentiary offense for a man to strike another, without sufficient justification, beneath ground. And had Sissie Larsen even so much as slapped Thornton Fairchild, that man would have been perfectly justified in killing him to protect himself. I ’m simply telling you that so that you will have no qualms in keeping concealed facts which, at this time, have no bearing. Guide yourselves accordingly-and as I say, I will be there only as a spectator, unless events should necessitate something else.”

They promised and went on, somewhat calmer in mind, to edge their way to the steps and to enter the basement of the courthouse. The coroner and his jury, composed of six miners picked up haphazard along the street-according to the custom of coroners in general-were already present. So was every person who possibly could cram through the doors of the big room. To them all Fairchild paid little attention,-all but three.

They were on a back seat in the long courtroom,-Squint Rodaine and his son, chalkier, yet blacker than ever, while between them sat an old woman with white hair which straggled about her cheeks, a woman with deep-set eyes, whose hands wandered now and then vaguely before her; a wrinkled woman, fidgeting about on her seat, watching with craned neck those who stuffed their way within the already crammed room, her eyes never still, her lips moving constantly, as though mumbling some never-ending rote. Fairchild stared at her, then turned to Harry.

“Who ’s that with the Rodaines?”

Harry looked furtively. “Crazy Laura-his wife.”

“But-”

“And she ain’t ’ere for anything good!”

Harry’s voice bore a tone of nervousness. “Squint Rodaine don’t even recognize ’er on the street-much less appear in company with ’er. Something’s ’appening!”

“But what could she testify to?”

“’Ow should I know?” Harry said it almost petulantly. “I did n’t even know she-”

“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” It was the bailiff, using a regular district-court introduction of the fact that an inquest was about to be held. The crowded room sighed and settled. The windows became frames for human faces, staring from without. The coroner stepped forward.

“We are gathered here to-night to inquire into the death of a man supposed to be L. A. Larsen, commonly called ‘Sissie’, whose skeleton was found to-day in the Blue Poppy mine. What this inquest will bring forth, I do not know, but as sworn and true members of the coroner’s jury, I charge and command you in the great name of the sovereign State of Colorado, to do your full duty in arriving at your verdict.”

The jury, half risen from its chair, some with their left hands held high above them, some with their right, swore in mumbling tones to do their duty, whatever that might be. The coroner surveyed the assemblage.

“First witness,” he called out; “Harry Harkins!”

Harry went forward, clumsily seeking the witness chair. A moment later he had been sworn, and in five minutes more, he was back beside Fairchild, staring in a relieved manner about him. He had been questioned regarding nothing more than the mere finding of the body, the identification by means of the watch, and the notification of the coroner. Fairchild was called, to suffer no more from the queries of the investigator than Harry. There was a pause. It seemed that the inquest was over. A few people began to move toward the door-only to halt. The coroner’s voice had sounded again:

“Mrs. Laura Rodaine!”

Prodded to her feet by the squint-eyed man beside her, she rose, and laughing in silly fashion, stumbled to the aisle, her straying hair, her ragged clothing, her big shoes and shuffling gait all blending with the wild, eerie look of her eyes, the constant munching of the almost toothless mouth. Again she laughed, in a vacant, embarrassed manner, as she reached the stand and held up her hand for the administration of the oath. Fairchild leaned close to his partner.

“At least she knows enough for that.”

Harry nodded.

“She knows a lot, that olé girl. They say she writes down in a book everything she does every day. But what can she be ’ere to testify to?”

The answer seemed to come in the questioning voice of the coroner.

“Your name, please?”

“Laura Rodaine. Least, that’s the name I go by. My real maiden name is Laura Masterson, and-”

“Rodaine will be sufficient. Your age?”

“I think it’s sixty-four. If I had my book I could tell. I-”

“Your book?”

“Yes, I keep everything in a book. But it is n’t here. I could n’t bring it.”

“The guess will be sufficient in this case. You ’ve lived here a good many years, Mrs. Rodaine?”

“Yes. Around thirty-five. Let’s see-yes, I ’m sure it’s thirty-five. My boy was born here-he ’s about thirty and we came here five years before that.”

“I believe you told me to-night that you have a habit of wandering around the hills?”

“Yes, I ’ve done that-I do it right along-I ’ve done it ever since my husband and I split up-that was just a little while after the boy was born-”

“Sufficient. I merely wanted to establish that fact. In wandering about, did you ever see anything, twenty-three or four years ago or so, that would lead you to believe you know something about the death of this man whose demise we are inquiring?”

The big hand of Harry caught at Fairchild’s arm. The old woman had raised her head, craning her neck and allowing her mouth to fall open, as she strove for words. At last:

“I know something. I know a lot. But I ’ve never figured it was anybody’s business but my own. So I have n’t told it. But I remember-”

“What, Mrs. Rodaine?”

“The day Sissie Larsen was supposed to leave town-that was the day he got killed.”

“Do you remember the date?”

“No-I don’t remember that.”

“Would it be in your book?”

She seemed to become suddenly excited. She half rose in her chair and looked down the line of benches to where her husband sat, the scar showing plainly in the rather brilliant light, his eyes narrowed until they were nearly closed. Again the question, and again a moment of nervousness before she answered:

“No-no-it would n’t be in my book. I looked.”

“But you remember?”

“Just like as if it was yesterday.”

“And what you saw-did it give you any idea-”

“I know what I saw.”

“And did it lead to any conclusion?”

“Yes.”

“What, may I ask?”

“That somebody had been murdered!”

“Who-and by whom?”

Crazy Laura munched at her toothless gums for a moment and looked again toward her husband. Then, her watery, almost colorless eyes searching, she began a survey of the big room, looking intently from one figure to another. On and on-finally to reach the spot where stood Robert Fairchild and Harry, and there they stopped. A lean finger, knotted by rheumatism, darkened by sun and wind, stretched out.

“Yes, I know who did it, and I know who got killed. It was ‘Sissie’ Larsen-he was murdered. The man who did it was a fellow named Thornton Fairchild who owned the mine-if I ain’t mistaken, he was the father of this young man-”

“I object!” Farrell, the attorney, was on his feet and struggling forward, jamming his horn-rimmed glasses into a pocket as he did so. “This has ceased to be an inquest; it has resolved itself into some sort of an inquisition!”

“I fail to see why.” The coroner had stepped down and was facing him.

“Why? Why-you ’re inquiring into a death that happened more than twenty years ago-and you ’re basing that inquiry upon the word of a woman who is not legally able to give testimony in any kind of a court or on any kind of a case! It’s not judicial, it’s not within the confines of a legitimate, honorable practice, and it certainly is not just to stain the name of any man with the crime of murder upon the word of an insane person, especially when that man is dead and unable to defend himself!”

“Are n’t you presuming?”

“I certainly am not. Have you any further evidence upon the lines that she is going to give?”

“Not directly.”

“Then I demand that all the testimony which this woman has given be stricken out and the jury instructed to disregard it.”

The official smiled.

“I think otherwise. Besides, this is merely a coroner’s inquest and not a court action. The jury is entitled to all the evidence that has any bearing on the case.”

“But this woman is crazy!”

“Has she ever been adjudged so, or committed to any asylum for the insane?”

“No-but nevertheless, there are a hundred persons in this court room who will testify to the fact that she is mentally unbalanced and not a fit person to fasten a crime upon any man’s head by her testimony. And referring even to yourself, Coroner, have you within the last twenty-five years, in fact, since a short time after the birth of her son, called her anything else but Crazy Laura? Has any one else in this town called her any other name? Man, I appeal to your-”

“What you say may be true. It may not. I don’t know. I only am sure of one thing-that a person is sane in the eyes of the law until adjudged otherwise. Therefore, her evidence at this time is perfectly legal and proper.”

“It won’t be as soon as I can bring an action before a lunacy court and cause her examination by a board of alienists.”

“That’s something for the future. In that case, things might be different. But I can only follow the law, with the members of the jury instructed, of course, to accept the evidence for what they deem it is worth. You will proceed, Mrs. Rodaine. What did you see that caused you to come to this conclusion?”

“Can’t you even stick to the rules and ethics of testimony?” It was the final plea of the defeated Farrell. The coroner eyed him slowly.

“Mr. Farrell,” came his answer, “I must confess to a deviation from regular court procedure in this inquiry. It is customary in an inquest of this character; certain departures from the usual rules must be made that the truth and the whole truth be learned. Proceed, Mrs. Rodaine, what was it you saw?”

Transfixed, horrified, Fairchild watched the mumbling, munching mouth, the staring eyes and straying white hair, the bony, crooked hands as they weaved before her. From those toothless jaws a story was about to come, true or untrue, a story that would stain the name of his father with murder! And that story now was at its beginning.

“I saw them together that afternoon early,” the old woman was saying. “I came up the road just behind them, and they were fussing. Both of ’em acted like they were mad at each other, but Fairchild seemed to be the maddest.

“I did n’t pay much attention to them because I just thought they were fighting about some little thing and that it wouldn’t amount to much. I went on up the gulch-I was gathering flowers. After awhile, the earth shook and I heard a big explosion, from way down underneath me-like thunder when it’s far away. Then, pretty soon, I saw Fairchild come rushing out of the mine, and his hands were all bloody. He ran to the creek and washed them, looking around to see if anybody was watching him-but he did n’t notice me. Then when he ’d washed the blood from his hands, he got up on the road and went down into town. Later on, I thought I saw all three of ’em leave town, Fairchild, Sissie and a fellow named Harkins. So I never paid any more attention to it until to-day. That’s all I know.”

She stepped down then and went back to her seat with Squint Rodaine and the son, fidgeting there again, craning her neck as before, while Fairchild, son of a man just accused of murder, watched her with eyes fascinated from horror. The coroner looked at a slip of paper in his hand.

“William Barton,” he called. A miner came forward, to go through the usual formalities, and then to be asked the question:

“Did you see Thornton Fairchild on the night he left Ohadi?”

“Yes, a lot of us saw him. He drove out of town with Harry Harkins, and a fellow who we all thought was Sissie Larsen. The person we believed to be Sissie was singing like the Swede did when he was drunk.”

“That’s all. Mr. Harkins, will you please take the stand again?”

“I object!” again it was Farrell. “In the first place, if this crazy woman’s story is the result of a distorted imagination, then Mr. Harkins can add nothing to it. If it is not, Mr. Harkins is cloaked by the protection of the law which fully applies to such cases and which, Mr. Coroner, you cannot deny.”

The coroner nodded.

“I agree with you this time, Mr. Farrell. I wish to work no hardship on any one. If Mrs. Rodaine’s story is true, this is a matter for a special session of the grand jury. If it is not true-well, then there has been a miscarriage of justice and it is a matter to be rectified in the future. But at the present, there is no way of determining that matter. Gentlemen of the jury,” he turned his back on the crowded room and faced the small, worried appearing group on the row of kitchen chairs, “you have heard the evidence. You will find a room at the right in which to conduct your deliberations. Your first official act will be to select a foreman and then to attempt to determine from the evidence as submitted the cause of death of the corpse over whom this inquest has been held. You will now retire.”

Shuffling forms faded through the door at the right. Then followed long moments of waiting, in which Robert Fairchild’s eyes went to the floor, in which he strove to avoid the gaze of every one in the crowded court room. He knew what they were thinking, that his father had been a murderer, and that he-well, that he was blood of his father’s blood. He could hear the buzzing of tongues, the shifting of the court room on the unstable chairs, and he knew fingers were pointing at him. For once in his life he had not the strength to face his fellow men. A quarter of an hour-a knock on the door-then the six men clattered forth again, to hand a piece of paper to the coroner. And he, adjusting his glasses, turned to the court room and read:

“We, the jury, find that the deceased came to his death from injuries sustained at the hands of Thornton Fairchild, in or about the month of June, 1892.”

That was all, but it was enough. The stain had been placed; the thing which the white-haired man who had sat by a window back in Indianapolis had feared all his life had come after death. And it was as though he were living again in the body of his son, his son who now stood beside the big form of Harry, striving to force his eyes upward and finally succeeding,-standing there facing the morbid, staring crowd as they turned and jostled that they might look at him, the son of a murderer!

How long it lasted he did not, could not know. The moments were dazed, bleared things which consisted to him only of a succession of eyes, of persons who pointed him out, who seemed to edge away from him as they passed him. It seemed hours before the court room cleared. Then, the attorney at one side, Harry at the other, he started out of the court room.

The crowd still was on the street, milling, circling, dividing into little groups to discuss the verdict. Through them shot scrambling forms of newsboys, seeking, in imitation of metropolitan methods, to enhance the circulation of the Bugle with an edition of a paper already hours old. Dazedly, simply for the sake of something to take his mind from the throngs and the gossip about him, Fairchild bought a paper and stepped to the light to glance over the first page. There, emblazoned under the “Extra” heading, was the story of the finding of the skeleton in the Blue Poppy mine, while beside it was something which caused Robert Fairchild to almost forget, for the moment, the horrors of the ordeal which he was undergoing. It was a paragraph leading the “personal” column of the small, amateurish sheet, announcing the engagement of Miss Anita Natalie Richmond to Mr. Maurice Rodaine, the wedding to come “probably in the late fall!”