to the Indian beadwork on moccasin and baldrick, devouring every detail as though to convince himself. I think our pewter buttons did it for him.

Boyd said gravely: “You seem to doubt us, Mr. Hays,” and read in the man’s unsteady eyes distrust of everything on earth — and little faith in God.

“I do not blame you,” said I gently. “Three years of hell burn deep.”

“Yes,” he said, “three years. And, as you say, sir, there was fire.”

He stood quietly silent for a space, then, looking timidly at me, he rolled back his sleeves, first one, then the other, to the shoulders. Then he undid the bandages.

“What is all that?”