AS night came on the weather changed abruptly, and a cold drizzle set in.

At his red-brick tavern, Levi Tucker, in a splint-bottom chair, dozed in front of his bar. The rain now falling in torrents and driven by a strong wind, splashed loudly against the closely-shuttered windows. The sperm oil in the dingy reeking lamps, burnt noisily, protestingly. There was a steady drip from the eave troughs; and the gutters were roaring rivers of muddy water.

The innkeeper sat with his feet thrust far out, and his fat freckled hands peacefully clasped before him. The rain had served to keep people in doors, and there was a strong counter attraction at the church, just around the corner, where the apostle of a new and preposterous propaganda, known as the Temperance Movement, was lecturing.

The innkeeper was frankly indignant. What made the whole affair seem especially aggravating and personal, was the fact that his wife was a communicant of that church, Mr. Tucker's religion as well as his distillery, was in his wife's name, and her devotion cost him annually the equivalent of many gallons of his famous “Lone Stager Rye,” a whisky which sophisticated travellers had pronounced to be unrivalled west of the Alleghanies.

During the interchange of certain light domestic confidences that had preceded Mrs. Tucker's departure for the lecture, her husband had remarked that he did not believe in mixing liquor and religion; whereupon Mrs. Tucker, who was young and pretty and high-spirited had retorted that he could never be accused of doing that, since he never ventured inside a church door; this had led to more words; and Mr. Tucker with some heat had denounced the lecturer as a meddlesome busybody; he had further informed his wife that he served drinks every hour of the day, and every day of his life, to better men.

“Meaning yourself, I suppose.” said Mrs. Tucker, tartly, but with heightened colour.

Mr. Tucker had ignored this, and had reminded her that even ministers of the Gospel had been known to seek his bar, and had there slacked their clerical thirst, without fear and without shame, “As man to man,” he added feelingly.

“One minister,” corrected Mrs. Tucker, “and he had a very red nose.”

This seemed such an unworthy objection to Mr. Tucker that he had allowed the matter to drop. But the lecture and the rain combined had proven disastrous to business. Colonel Sharp had dropped in for his usual nightcap, a carefully-measured three fingers; he had favoured Mr. Tucker with a Latin quotation, and Mr. Tucker had favoured him with the opinion that they were likely to have a spell of weather. Next, a belated farmer had stopped to have a jug filled with apple brandy; he had ventured a few occult observations on the condition of the crops, and had informed Mr. Tucker that it was the first rainy tenth of June in two years, and that up to four o'clock in the afternoon it had been the hottest tenth of June in five years; then he had gathered his jug of brandy up under his arm, and had departed into the night; and the innkeeper, rotund and grey, with his two sparse wisps of hair carefully plastered back of his ears, and looking not unlike an aged and degenerate cupid, a cupid, who through some secret grief had taken to drink, dozed in solitude before his bar.

Suddenly, he was aroused by hearing a step on the brick pavement outside the door. A man seemed to pause there irresolutely; then a hand was placed upon the latch, the door swung slowly open, and Truman Rogers, with his son at his side, stood revealed upon the threshold.

“Come in, man, come in,” cried Mr. Tucker.

Rogers pulled the door to after him, and moved into the room; his clothes were wet and steaming, the wide brim of his hat drooped, hiding his face, and in the half light of the dingy lamps he looked more like a gaunt shadow than a living man.

The boy at his side kept fast hold of his hand; he, too, was shivering under the drag of his clammy garments, but he seemed to exercise a certain protecting care toward his father, for his glance was full of childish tenderness, not unmixed with concern.

“You'd better have a dish of liquor right now,” said Mr. Tucker; he added hospitably: “It's on the house, man; I knew your father well.”

The innkeeper hurried behind his bar, and the Californian poured himself a full glass from the bottle he pushed toward him. “Here's how,” he said, and he drained it at a single swallow.

Mr. Tucker emptied a dash of spirits into a second glass and added a generous portion of water; this he handed to the child, saying, “Here, sonny, this will warm you up inside.”

The child drank the mixture with a wry face. Mr. Tucker laughed.

“Takes right hold, don't it? Well, it's a good friend, but a poor master,” and he thoughtfully filled a third glass for himself. “Here's to you, and me, and all of us,” he said, smiling genially.

Rogers seated himself in the chair the innkeeper had vacated; the child stole quietly to his side.

“I reckon you didn't find many people you knew here about,” observed Mr. Tucker, as he returned his glass to the bar.

“Not one.” His tone was one of utter hopelessness. It gave a tragic touch to his drooping figure. The boy crept into his father's arms; his movement gave a new direction to the latter's thoughts. “I expect you're plumb tuckered out, son,” he said gently, smiling sadly down on the grave, upturned face. “I expect bed's about the best place for you; what do you say?”

The child nodded wearily.

Rogers turned to the innkeeper. “I suppose you can House us over night?” he said.

“To be sure I can,” answered Mr. Tucker promptly. “That's my business; entertainment for man and beast.”

“I'll put my boy to bed then; show a way with a light, will you?” he rose stiffly with the child in his arms, and preceded by the innkeeper, carrying a lamp, quitted the room. A few minutes later the two men returned to the bar, and Rogers resumed his chair. His attitude was one of profound dejection. His hope was dying a hard death. Perhaps he could not have told if he had tried, just all he had expected from his return to Benson, but for days and weeks and months, it had been the background of his splendid dreams.

Not heeding the presence of his host, he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin sunk in his palms, grim, desperate.

The innkeeper seated himself at the opposite side of the room, and fell to studying him. He had seen men look much as he looked, who had lost their last dollar at cards.

Mrs. Tucker, thrilled and edified, and under escort of the faithful

Jim, carrying a lantern, returned from the lecture and entered the tavern by a rear door. Her husband presently heard her footsteps in the room overhead, where the heels of her shoes tapped the floor aggressively; and he muttered the single word “Tantrums,” under his breath, while his face took on an expression of great resignation.

Here Rogers broke the silence. “Hope I ain't keeping you,” he said.

“You ain't,” answered Mr. Tucker, with what was for him unusual decision.

“I didn't know but you might want to close up,” explained Rogers civilly.

“I don't,” returned Mr. Tucker, with quiet determination. “I want to chew a little more tobacco before I go to bed.”

There was another long pause. Rogers continued to stare into vacancy, and Mr. Tucker, round-eyed and wondering, continued to stare at Rogers. They might have been sitting thus ten minutes, when suddenly the street door swung open, and three men entered the room. The first of these was Captain Nathan Gibbs, editor of The True Whig; The captain, whose title had been derived from the militia, was blond and florid, and attired in immaculate broadcloth and spotless linen. He was, perhaps, five and thirty years old, but he had been a man of many and varied activities.

His companions were Bushrod and Stephen Landray. They were men in the prime of life, and much alike in appearance. They were tall and lean and strong, with dark animated eyes, and fine expressive faces. There was something Roman and patrician in their bearing; and when they spoke it was with a perceptibly Southern drawl; for the Landrays were from Virginia, and of good cavalier stock. The fifth of their name in the Royal Colony, a Stephen Mason Landray, had afterward risen to a high rank in the Continental Army. His son, another Stephen Mason Landray, had been the third settler at Benson, and the great man of the community in pioneer days. His fame still survived; he had served with distinction against the Indians and English, when war was abroad in the land, and he had lived in times of peace, with much simple dignity and kindliness, among the ruder and poorer folk of the frontier who were his neighbours.

“Yes sir,” Gibbs was saying as the three men entered the room. “If what we hear is true, it offers the grandest opportunity for youth and energy; of new field for capital; a—”

“Hold on, Gibbs,” interrupted Stephen Landray. “This will never do; in common with the rest of the Whigs you were opposed to the annexation of Texas, the war with Mexico, and the seizure of California. If your memory fails you on this point, you have only to read some of your own editorials.”

“But this, my dear fellow, puts a new complexion on the whole matter.”

“Oh! no, it don't, Gibbs; you must be consistent,” urged Bushrod.

“Consistency be damned,” retorted Gibbs, as he turned to the innkeeper who had retired behind the bar. “The case bottle, if you please, Tucker. Thanks—She will be admitted to the Union inside of ten years; I wish to go on record as saying so. Gentlemen, metaphorically speaking, we will now proceed to moisten the soil of California.”

Then, as the three men raised their glasses, Truman Rogers rose from his chair; he was all alive now to what was passing before him.

“What's wrong with California, Cap?” inquired Mr. Tucker, with amiable interest. “What's she been a doing anyhow?”

“The Eastern papers say that gold has been discovered there,” replied Gibbs.

Truman Rodgers strode to his side, and took him almost fiercely by the arm. “Is that so?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with emotion.

The four men looked at him in mute surprise.

“Is that so?” he repeated. “Do they say where it was found?” he released his hold on the captain's arm, and rested limply against the bar.

“At Sutter's Fort, on the American River,” said Stephen Landray, slowly.

The effect on the Californian was electrical. He threw out his arms despairingly in a single gesture of tragic renunciation. “I'm too late again, my luck every time—damn them! Damn them! Why couldn't they keep still! the fools!”

“And why should they keep still?” demanded Gibbs toying with his empty glass.

“Why should they?” furiously. “What chance will there be now for the men who went into the country first—what chance will there be for me?” Again he threw out his arms, he seemed to put from him all hope; his mouth was bitter with the very taste of his words.

“You'll have as good a chance as any,” retorted Gibbs, still toying with his glass. “And, pardon me, you're a fool to expect more than that.”

“If what the Eastern papers say is true, there will be gold enough for all who are likely to go in search of it,” interrupted Bushrod Landray, good-naturedly. “You are Truman Rogers?”

Rogers nodded dully.

“And you are direct from California?” continued Landray.

“I left there five months ago, Mister.”

“You don't remember us, perhaps, I am Bushrod Landray, and this is my brother, Stephen,” and he held out his hand. “You have reasons for believing this news of Captain Gibbs to be true?”

“Mighty good reasons, too; that's what brought me here, fetched me all this distance, when I wa'n'. fit to travel.”

“You know the gold to be there?” and Landray regarded the Californian with quickened interest.

Rogers hesitated a moment; concealment had become second nature to him. At last he said, “I reckon I know as much about that as any man alive,” and now his sunken eyes began to flash, and the colour came and went on his waxen cheeks, his long fingers opened and closed convulsively. “I've seen it with my own eyes. I thought I was the only one who knew it was there, but the word must have come around the Horn on the next ship that sailed after the one I took, Sutter's Fort—that's a good hundred miles from where I found it.”

“What I'd like to know,” and Mr. Tucker cleared his throat impressively, “Is how you found it?”

“It's in small nuggets, or like fine dust.”

“The gold is?” said Mr. Tucker.

“Yes.”

“It's agin nature. Blamed if it ain't fishy,” and Mr. Tucker shook his head dubiously. “It may be true; mind, I'm not disputing your word; but I don't believe it. No sir, it's agin nature,” reiterated Mr. Tucker. “I reckon you didn't pick out much now, did you?” he added shrewdly.

“No,” said Rogers regretfully, “I didn't. I ain't fit any more; I got an Indian arrow through my right lung,” here a violent fit of coughing interrupted him.

“No, you ain't fit any more,” agreeed Mr. Tucker commiseratingly.

“I been looking to get even with the game,” said Rogers, with a flash of hope in his deep eyes. “But I reckon this news near about knocks me. I was empty-handed when I left here twenty years ago, thinking to better myself, but I've come back just as poor as I went. I've played it in the hardest kind of luck right along, friends. I fought Indians and Mexicans in Texas, and helped drive them out of the country, but some one else always got the pick of the land. I herded sheep and cattle, only to have them run off; and, last of all, the Indians cleaned me out, and killed my wife. Then I moved over onto the Coast, hoping for a white man's chance; and when I found the gold I thought my fortune was made,” harsh, unhappy laughter issued from his lips. He swept a hand across his eyes, emotion seemed to choke him. “I been like a boy thinking how I'd spend that fortune. I been staying awake nights figuring what I'd buy with it; but I reckon I'll have chilly fingers before it burns a hole in my pockets. I wanted to bring my boy home, and then I was going to go back overland. It's a damnation trip across the plains.”

“Indians?” asked Mr. Tucker, his mouth agape.

“Indians, and no water, and no grub, and no guides, and no nothing. It's a hell of a trip, and it's a hell of a country.”

“I can't see how this news hurts your chances in the least,” said Stephen Landray kindly, he had not spoken until now. “To be candid with you, I think it rather benefits you than otherwise.”

“Why, of course,” said Bushrod. “It will all tend to create an interest in such ventures as the one you have to propose.”

Rogers looked first from the one to the other. “If I could think that, I'd sleep easy to-night,” but he shook his head sadly. “The bloom's off; it ain't a secret any longer.”

“Yes, but don't you see this news is all in proof of what you would want to make people believe?” urged Stephen. “Not that any proof would be necessary, perhaps.”

“I've fetched my own proofs,” said Rogers. “Some of the gold. If it's proof you want, I reckon you can't better that,” and he took from his pocket a small glass vial filled with a dirty yellow substance. “There's over three ounces of gold dust there. It's worth sixteen dollars an ounce. I reckon you can't beat that. Want to hold it?” he added indulgently, and passed the vial to the innkeeper, who took it gingerly, caressingly, in his fat fingers.

At least two of his auditors were rich men, according to the easy standard of the times, while Tucker was well-to-do, and the editor fairly prosperous; but the romance of it all had taken a powerful hold on them. A subtle excitement was in the mind of each. Here, shorn of the vexations and delays of trade, and within reach of the strong arm of the willing digger, was that which was the measure of the world's necessity, that by which men guaged success or failure in life. In the presence of so simple a process, each felt a sudden distaste for his own task.

“I wish I was ten years younger and free-footed,” said Mr. Tucker, at last. “I'd pull out of here to-morrow, blamed if I wouldn't.”

The editor laughed softly. He was like a man rousing from a dream. “Nonsense! Luck won't be for one in a hundred; perhaps not for one in a thousand.”

“I'd run the risk, Cap; and if I found any of that dust, I wouldn't sleep or eat or drink, until I'd fished it out of the soil.”

“What will be my chance at making up a company here?” asked Rogers, and now he addressed himself to the Landrays. He recognized in their silence a deeper interest than that manifested by either Mr. Tucker or Captain Gibbs.

“Are you really in earnest about going back?” asked Bushrod Landray, curiously.

Rogers drew his tall form erect. “I allow there's just about two thousand miles of go left in me, Mister,” he said.

“And you think you could pilot a wagon train across the plains?” asked Stephen.

“You give me the chance to show what I can do—that's all I ask. Of course, I see now, I must have been clean crazy to leave the Coast when it took my last dollar, but I ain't fit for heavy work any more; I go shut like a clasp-knife; and I was near about wild to be with some of my own kin.”

“You may be able to make up a party here,” said Stephen.

“If you are wise, you will take your brother home, Bush!” said Gibbs.

Stephen turned to him: “Don't you see it would not be necessary for me to go to California to share in a speculation of this sort?”

“No, I can't see it Landray.”

“A company could be organized. Whoever wished to, could take shares in the venture; there would be little or no difficulty in finding men to go and do the actual work of digging for the gold.”

“Have you any scheme to propose that would guarantee a fair division of the profits in the event of there being any?” asked the captain.

Landray smiled slightly. “There would be no trouble about that,” he said hastily. “For, of course, we would only send men in whom we had the fullest confidence; and the returns could be made regularly by ship, by way of the Horn—”

“The small end of it,” suggested Gibbs, lightly.

Mr. Tucker laughed boistrously at this sally, but neither of the Landrays smiled.

Gibbs yawned. “I think we had all better go home and sleep on it,” he said.

“You're right, so we should,” said Stephen. He turned to Rogers. “I'd like to see you again, there are some questions I want to ask you. You'll be here for a while, I suppose?”

“There ain't any time to waste if you mean business,” urged Rogers eagerly.

“No, I suppose not; but I don't know that I do mean business. You must not take my interest too seriously, and yet—”

Gibbs slipped his arm through Stephen's. “Oh, come along! you will wake up sane in the morning. Good-night, Tucker. Goodnight, Mr. Rogers. Coming, Bush?”