ROGERS had taken up his abode at the tavern. The Land-rays had arranged with Tucker that he should be their guest, and that he should want for nothing.

At first he had shown some interest in the town and in the changes that had taken place during the twenty years covered by his absence; but as the summer merged into fall, and fall into winter, he kept more and more within doors, establishing himself in the cheerful tavern bar, where Mr. Tucker presided with a benignity of bearing that had mellowed with the years and the passing of the human traffic of the stage road, whose straying feet had worn deep hollows in the brick pavement beyond his door.

During those first weeks of his stay in Benson, Rogers might have been a Columbus newly returned, or a Ponce de Leon with discovered fountains of perpetual youth; and in the spell of the wonders in which he dealt, and in which his hearers delighted, Tucker felt his reason reel and totter and all but collapse. As he came and went about the place, his eyes were always turned in the direction of the grim Californian. They sought him out over the rim of his glass, each time it was raised to his lips; and he watched him by the hour as he sat in his chair and sucked at the reed stem of his red-clay pipe, sucked and marvelled, or meditated investment in the company, a transaction of which he invariably thought better, however, before the day was ended. And when Rogers was not there to tell his own story, which sometimes chanced, he did it for him, but always with the nicest regard for accuracy. He had not been ten yards from his own front door in five years, indeed, not since he had courted the third and present Mrs. Tucker, so that such news as he usually had to disseminate was known to all Benson long before he was in possession of it; but the excitement of which Rogers was the centre, and in the reflected glory of which he now dwelt, recalled the days that had followed the knifing of Sheriff Cadwaller by Mr. Johnny Saul in that very room, and, considerately enough, with himself as the only witness.

Rogers had placed Benny in school, and each evening after supper he would steal up to the child's room, where Benny carefully rehearsed for his benefit such portions of the lessons of the day as he remembered, while his father listened, with a look of tender yearning in his dark, sunken eyes. Then, when Benny was safely bestowed in his bed, if custom was slack at the bar, and he alone with Tucker, he would sit silent and absorbed, thinking of the boy and the future he had planned, of the riches he would yet achieve for him in spite of sickness and mortal weariness. It was all so fair a dream, and his hopes so tenderly unselfish, that the harsh lines of his face would soften; and his thin, shaven lips whose hard expression usually indicated nothing beyond a dry reserve, would relax in a slow, wistful smile; and the old innkeeper watching him, would wonder in his vague way that one who had seen so much of violence and bloodshed, who, by his own indifferent telling, had been no better than others of his own reckless class, could look so mild and gentle.

“I tell you, Tucker, he's keen as a briar!” Rogers never wearied of telling his companion. “I reckon he's about the first of us Rogers in many a long year who's done more than make a cross when it came to signing his name.”

“But you got something better than learning,” Tucker would say, with a wise shake of his head. “You got knowledge; wonderful, astonishing knowledge. Personally you've wedged open my mind more than any other man I know, not excepting Colonel Sharp, who's been talking Latin to me, which I never did understand, for near about twenty years; but I can't see that it's ever done me the good you're doing me. What'll you drink?”

From the incipiency of the company on, that enterprise had seemed to Rogers to go forward with a deadly slowness: Those who invested in the shares requiring so much of him before they were convinced that their money would not only be safe, but would increase with the dazzling rapidity he said, and believed it must. Yet, devoured as he was by impatience, he told his story over and over, with an earnestness that never failed to fascinate his hearers, though he had to meet the habitual caution of men whose means had grown slowly in trade or petty speculations.

“It's disencouraging,” agreed Mr. Tucker benevolently. “But you couldn't a done better than get the Landray boys to take hold. Everybody knows them—they got money—they got influence; no one can't ever complain of any sharp practice from them. I've had dealings with them myself; I bought the distillery from them. I traded them land, a thousand acres in Belmont County. They took that at a valuation of twenty-five hundred dollars, and I got as much more to pay; but I'm trying to talk them into taking another thousand acres instead of the cash. My aim is to get shut of all that there land; then my money will be here where I can watch it.”

There were those among Rogers's auditors, however, who appeared quite ready to be convinced of the reasonableness of all he promised, arguing with him against their own doubt even; and when he thought it only remained for them to decide how many shares they could take, their enthusiasm would suddenly wane, they would become cold and hesitating, frankly anxious to make their escape uncommitted from him and from the Landrays, and this would be the last he would see of them for days; he would give them up for lost; and after he had fully made up his mind that nothing would come of it, they would appear and put their names to the paper which Stephen Landray always carried, and it was perhaps another hundred dollars added to the capital stock of the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company.

The necessity for haste was the one thing he urged on Stephen and his brother; but it was December before all of the shares were actually taken, and he was forced to own that to start across the plains in the dead of winter was out of the question, even if it had been feasible to make the first stage of the journey down the Ohio. They must wait until spring. This delay had seemed the last vengeful fling of fate. Whatever was evil to know and endure he had known and endured on that far frontier where his best years had been spent; he had acquired a fortitude and patience that rarely failed him; he had accepted hardship and danger as the natural, expected, things of life; and the ordinary deaths he had seen men die, by knife or bullet, he had himself bravely faced; but the slow approach of an enemy he could not see, but could only feel in his wasted muscles and weakened will, appalled him.

“I can feel it here—here—gnawing at my throat, gnawing like some hungry varment,” he told Stephen Landray. “I reckon if I was a praying man, I'd pray to die a sudden death; this is just wasting away—wasting and remembering, and hoping. God Almighty! Such hope and such remembering.”

But it was only to Stephen that he told his fears; he did not speak of them to the others, and they never guessed that a fever of despair was consuming him.

Stephen Landray was as free from superstitious imaginings as most men, but Rogers's low spirits, coupled with the sorrow and apprehension Virginia vainly strove to conceal, had its effect on his mental vigour. A dozen times he was on the verge of appealing to the other shareholders for his release from the active direction of an enterprise that was going forward under such distressing auspices; but he comforted himself with the thought that his absence would only be for a year or two.

Pride had a good deal to do with keeping him true to his purpose. He could recall the day when the property he and Bushrod had inherited had constituted a great fortune, by far the greatest in Benson, but times were slowly changing, improvements in machinery and methods had closed the carding and fulling mill his father had built during his lifetime; the distillery, which they had sold to Tucker, no longer sent its produce by flat-boat down the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans. Shrewder men than he and his brother, had taken away their once profitable business as forwarding agents, and the great warerooms at the mill, which had once been piled high with barrels of flour awaiting shipment, were now all but empty. He felt that they were being slowly but surely elbowed into the background by strangers with greater capital or greater ability. This was a sore grief to both brothers, though it was, perhaps, not the loss of money they dreaded so much as the fancied loss of prestige.

While Stephen hoped that Rogers might live to enjoy the wealth he felt would be the fruit of their venture, he cast about him for some man who possessed a similar acquaintance with the West, if not with the gold-fields, and remembered his cousin Basil. This Basil Landray was the son of his father's younger brother, the late Colonel Rupert Landray, of the United States Army. Of Basil he knew little, except that he had been at one time a civilian hanger-on of the army at Detroit; Later he had known of him as an employee of the American Fur Company.

In the early fall he hazarded a letter to this cousin at Council Bluffs, telling him of the undertaking in which they were about to embark, and asking him if he would care to join their party in the spring, at Independence. After many months a reply came; an illy-written, illy-spelt letter, that rather shocked the recipient. From the letter he gathered that Basil was seeking just such an opportunity as that he had offered.

About this time young Jacob Benson had occasion to drive out to the farm to see Landray.

“Tell Mr. Landray I'm here, Sam,” he said to the farm-hand who had taken his horse, and was preparing to lead it away to the stable. “He's at the mill,” said Sam.

“Let him know I'm here, please,” and the lawyer made his way into the house, where he was shown into the library. Ten minutes later Stephen and his brother entered the room.

“I hope we haven't kept you waiting, Benson,” said the former. “I've seen Mr. Stark, and it's all right,” said the lawyer. “I promised you I'd let you know at once.”

“So he'll renew the note?” said Stephen, seating himself before his desk.

“You are both to see him at the bank to-morrow,” answered Benson. There was a brief pause, and then the lawyer asked:

“How's the California scheme coming on?”

“I told you I had heard from our cousin, Basil Landray, did I not?”

“Yes, you had just received his letter the last time I saw you in town. Do you know yet when you shall start?”

“As soon as the Ohio is free of ice.”

“That won't be long now.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Stephen absently. “Look here,” he added abruptly. “We've got an offer for the mill.”

“Paxon?” inquired Benson.

“Yes. We find we shall have to let go of something,” said Stephen; there was a shade of embarrassment in his tone, for the subject was an unpleasant one. “And the mill is about the only piece of property we own that we care to part with.”

The mill, a huge structure of stone, had been erected by General Landray, and was said to occupy the site of a building of logs and bark, where almost half a century before had been ground the first corn and wheat grown in the county. Rude as had been this pioneer mill, it had represented the mechanical skill of the entire community. A sugar trough had served as a meal trough; while the stones had been bound with elm bark for the want of a proper metal.

“Well, Paxon is willing to pay ten thousand dollars for the mill,” Stephen continued. “Two thousand down, and the balance secured by his notes. This includes the water rights, and about ninety acres of land, and the miller's house.”

“It goes rather hard with us to let go,” said Bushrod Landray, who had been standing before one of the windows, his glance fixed on the out-of-doors, now he turned on his heel and faced his two companions.

Stephen moved uneasily in his chair.

“This silly fellow is influenced by all sorts of impracticable sentiment. He doesn't seem to see that we can't eat our cake and have it, too. If we go to California, we shall have to make some sacrifice here; and unless we go fully prepared to make the most of our chances, we would far better stay at home. I tell you, the men who go with a few thousands in hand to be put out in such advantageous speculations as may offer, will have unlimited opportunities for money-making. The mill isn't doing for us what it did for father; there is too much opposition for one thing, but Paxon says he can control a profitable Ohio River trade.”

“Yes,” agreed his brother reluctantly, “I suppose it is better in his hands doing something, than in ours, doing nothing. There's too much opposition, as you say. I can remember when there was not another mill within fifteen miles of here, and now there is twenty run of stone in the township.”

“And we have made a botch of the business!” said Stephen shortly. “Just remember we borrowed that money of Stark to buy wheat with, and the flour was thrown back on us when we shipped it to the lake. Musty and unsalable, the agent said. That cut last year's profits exactly in half: I'm sick of the mill!”

Bushrod sighed. “We have gone along easily enough, thanks to no special cleverness of our own, but we have been drones and spenders rather than anything else. If I oppose the sale of the mill, it is only because I have no mind to see the property dwindle.”

“Do be reasonable, Bush! A year or two in California will remedy all that,” said Stephen quickly. “Even Benson here has faith in our project!”

Thus appealed to, the lawyer said, “There will probably be many bitter disappointments, but there's no reason why cautious men, having some capital, should not do well in California, men of that kind are generally successful in new countries.”

“Why, you can't take up an Eastern newspaper without reading of fabulous strikes.” Stephen's dark eyes sparkled. “They say the country will soon be flooded with diggers from all parts of the world. Already they are crowding in from Texas and Mexico, and the Sandwich Islands. Of course, there will be some luckier than others, but thank God, there promises to be enough for all!”

Benson smiled cynically. The depth of Landray's worldly inexperience tickled his fancy. He knew better than to believe that man ever got something for nothing, or that Nature would suddenly open her heart to the gold-seekers as she had never before opened it to the struggling children of men. He saw that Bushrod shared his brother's enthusiasm where their joint venture was concerned; it was only that he was somewhat less ruthless in paving the way for it. To Stephen, though he was the younger, was left the initiative. The latter went on: “We wish to leave the loose ends of several matters in your hands.”

“What are you going to do with the farm?” asked Benson.

“Oh, Trent's brother Tom is going to take it, stock and all. I keep the house for Virginia, who wishes to remain here. I wanted her to go into town, but she prefers not to.”

“Then there is the distillery,” said Bushrod.

“Yes,” said Stephen, “Tucker still owes us twenty-five hundred dollars on it, but we've about agreed to take a thousand acres more of his Belmont County land in lieu of the money.”

“How about the farm north of town where Leonard lives?”

“Leonard is to stay on. He pays a hundred and fifty a year, and you'll have to keep after him to get it. We have about five thousand dollars on our books at the mill; most of it's good, and I expect we can collect some of it ourselves, what's left we shall place in your hands.”

“Hadn't you better draw up a statement of your affairs?” suggested Benson. “Directing what I am to do during your absence, where such and such money is to be used? Of course, you will have to allow me a certain latitude, and you'd better keep a copy of the memorandum; for if you should be detained in the West longer than you think you shall be, you may need it to refer to.”

“If Bush agrees to the sale of the mill—” began Stephen.

“Oh, I guess I'll come around to that if you'll just wait a while,” interposed his brother rather hopelessly. “There wasn't a dollar against the property in father's time, and we have already sold the distillery; and now we are figuring on the sale of the mill.

“It simply means that while the estate was ample for the support of one family, it is not ample for the support of two; and times have changed; it costs more to live now.”

“I'd be glad to think the fault was not all ours,” said Bushrod.

As they talked, the light had faded in the western sky to a cold radiance. The room was illuminated only by the dancing flames of the blazing hickory logs upon the hearth. The three men had gradually drawn nearer the fire as the shadows deepened about them. Now Benson rose from his chair.

“We'd better get together at my office in the course of a week or so, and we'll fix up these matters.”

“Won't you stay and take supper with us?” said Stephen.

“No, thank you.”

There was a gentle tap at the door, and Virginia entered the room, carrying a lamp. She bowed slightly to Benson, whom she had not seen before, and who, to her, seemed to be taking much too active a part in her husband's concerns. Her dislike, for it already amounted to that, was scarcely reasonable, but then she was not always reasonable.

“I thought you would need a light,” she explained, addressing her husband, “and Martha is busy with the men's supper.”

“Thank you for remembering us,” said Stephen.

He had risen and now took the lamp from her hand; in doing so his fingers closed about her's with a gentle pressure, while his eyes looked smilingly into her's; but there was no answering smile. She turned abruptly and quitted the room.

There was an awkward pause, then Bushrod rose quickly from his chair, with something like a look of dismay on his dark face.

“I declare, Stephen, you shouldn't go! What's the use of every one being made miserable?”

“Nonsense, man!” said Stephen with a shrug.

A little later Bushrod and Benson drove away together, and Stephen, who had followed them to the door, paused on the porch watching them out of sight. A soft step roused him; his wife stood at his side, and placed a hand on his arm.

“I am sorry,” she said simply.

“You're not to blame,” he said kindly. “I know it's not the sort of thing a woman could have much interest in.”

“Oh, don't let us speak of it again! I want you to remember only that you were happy during these, our last days together, and that I loved you, as I have always loved you, Stephen—sometimes I think better than even you comprehend.”

“Why, you speak as if it were the end of it all, when it's only the beginning! Bush and I will make our fortunes—”

“Oh, why can't we be content to be just poor, Stephen? What does it matter what we lack so long as we have each other? Once, not very long ago, we thought that would be sufficient,” she whispered softly, and to him her every word was a reproach; only his fancied needs, defended by his native stubbornness and his inability to look down any path save that he had chosen, was keeping him true to his purpose.

“But we can't be poor,” he said at last doggedly. “I've wished it were possible, but it's not! We can't stand by and see the fortune go to pot!”

“But I thought our love was enough—it is for me,” she said sadly.

“Why, bless your heart, dear, and so it is!” he cried in a tone of sturdy conviction, slipping an arm about her.

“Then why must you go?” But she knew that opposition was useless.

“Nothing but our necessity is taking me from you.”

“Money!” with brave contempt. “We can live without that!”

“I'm afraid not, dear.”

“Why do you so dread the loss of fortune? There are other things I dread more to lose.”

“I swear I don't know; but there is something shameful in it to me,” he said.

“But why?”

“Well, for us it would mean that we had failed, Bush and I, in everything; that we hadn't the ability to even hold on to what father left us. No, no, dear, the family can't go to the dogs quite yet: It's true we have no children, and sometimes I have been almost thankful, but there's Bush's boy to carry on the name; he's got to have his chance in life. I only hope he'll turn out a shrewder hand than either his father or uncle!”

“There will be enough, there has always been enough.”

“That doesn't follow: We have about reached the point now where we'll feel the pinch. You mustn't think that anything short of a real need would take me from you; only that shall separate us, and the separation will be but brief; and then Bush and I will come back with a fortune—”

“Only return safe and well, dear, and never mind about the fortune,” she said tenderly, as they turned back into the house.