64 THE LOG OF A TIMBER CRUISER 
I was glad she suffered—poor little girl! . . . Well, 
I found her finally... . She’d died the night be- 
fore I reached her. I buried her and swore on her 
grave to find the blackguard that left her to die and 
kill him. . . . And all the time I’d as good as mur- 
dered her myself !’’ 
Ewing stopped and bit on his pipestem till the 
hard rubber snapped. 
‘‘Yes, I murdered her,’’ he went on at length, in 
a husky whisper. ‘‘It came to me after a time— 
a long, hard time. And now—now I can’t tell her!’’ 
‘“Perhaps, in some other life—”’ 
“Oh, I’ve thought of that,’’ broke in the packer. 
‘But some other life isn’t this one—and it’s in this 
one I killed her, with my damned selfishness. No! 
I’ve got to take my medicine, as she took hers and, 
by God, as Donohue’ll take his when I get him!’’ 
He seemed on the verge of a breakdown. 
‘‘Have you had any trace of Donohue?” I asked. 
“‘He’s in the Rio Grande Valley somewhere, right 
now,’’ said Ewing, more quietly. ‘‘I don’t know 
where, but he’s hiding somewhere. He knows I[’ll 
get him. Iwas broke when this job came along, so I 
took it for a grub stake. When I’m through... .’’ 
He shook himself and rose abruptly, and his old 
manner returned. 
‘It’s good of you to listen to all this,’’ he said, 
‘fand it’s helped me. Some times I’ve thought I’d 
go insane. It’s helped a whole lot just telling some 
one about it. I think I’ll turn in.’’ 
