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Bennington de Laney sat on the pile of rocks at the entrance to the

Holy Smoke shaft Across his knees lay the thirty-calibre rifle His

face was very white and set Perhaps he was thinking of his return to

New York in disgrace, of his intervieith Bishop, of his inevitable

with a multitude of friends, ould read in the daily papers

the accounts of his incompetence--criminal inco to lengthen across the slope of the

hill Up the gulch cow bells tinkled, up the hill birds sang, and

through the little holloilight flowed like a vapour The wild

roses on the hillside were bloo their endless song But Bennington de Laney was

looking upon none of these softer beauties of the Hills Rather he

watched intently the lower gulch with its flood-wracked, water-twisted

skeleton laid bare Could it be that in the destruction there figured

forth he caught the syloohts that occupied his

own remorseful mind? If so, the fancy must have absorbed hier, the bird songs

louder, and still the figure with the rifle sat ulch