did not know. But if the fellow was able to shift for himself, it suited
King well enough. He had business of his own and no desire to step to
one side or another to deal with Swen Brodie or Andy Parker, or with any
man who trailed his luck with such as these. But now Parker called to
him, and in an altered voice, a whine running through the words.

"Hold on, King. I'm hung up here for the night, anyhow. And I ain't got
a bite of grub, and already I'm burning up with thirst. Get me a drink,
will you?"

Without answer, King went to his canvas roll, and Parker, thinking
himself deserted, began to plead noisily. On his knees King opened his
roll, got out a cup, and began to search for water. Above him there were
patches of snow; he found where a trickle of clear cold water ran in a
narrow rivulet, and presently returned to the injured man with a
brimming cup. Parker drank thirstily, demanded more, and sank back with
a long sigh.

"The thing's unlucky, you know, King," he said queerly.

"Is it?" said King coolly. It was like him not to pretend that he did
not know to what Andy Parker's thoughts had flown.

Parker nodded, pursing his lips, and kept on nodding like a broken
automatic toy. At the end he jerked his head up and muttered:

"There's been the devil's luck on it for more'n sixty years and maybe a
thousand years before that! Oh, _you_ know! Look how it went with those
old-timers. The last one of the Seven got it. Look how it happens with
old man Loony Honeycutt, clucking and chuckling and stepping up and down