BENSON began his preparations for the journey West with some reluctance, and it was well into May before he felt he could even fix on a date for his departure; but one morning Sam West brought him a brief note from Virginia that made him repent the weeks he had wasted.

She feared he was finding his promise impossible of fulfillment. Would he not forget that he had ever made such a promise, and tell her what steps it would be necessary to take to raise money sufficient for her to make the journey.

This note resulted in immediate action on Benson's part. He saw Judge Bradly and told him he expected to leave for California the first of the following week; then he drove at once to the farm to inform Virginia of his decision.

When he reached the farm he found Virginia and Jane, with Jane's baby, seated under an old apple-tree that grew by the corner of the house. He had tied his horse in the lane by the bars; and as he crossed the yard toward them Virginia advanced to meet him.

“You received my note?” she asked, as they shook hands.

“Yes, and your doubt of me was not unmerited. I must have seemed horribly dilatory to you; but my plans are all made; I shall start this day week. I can understand that to you I have seemed to go forward very slowly in this matter.”

“Did I seem very impatient?” asked Virginia humbly; but he saw there were depths of suffering back of the light his words had kindled in her eyes; and his conscience troubled him not a little that he had withheld the comfort his departure on this mission of his, would have given her.

“Not in the least, I am fully alive to your anxiety; your patience has been greater than I expected,” he assured her.

“I fear I am too willing to let you go; but I shall never forget, Mr. Benson—never, as long as I live!” and she raised her beautiful face to his with a look of gratitude that went beyond mere words.

“I am ashamed,” he burst out generously, “to have let anything detain me.”

“It has been my terrible anxiety that has made the days so slow in passing. Won't you come and see Jane and the baby?—why, you have never seen the baby, Mr. Benson!” with a poor attempt at gaiety.

But a pall was upon the three. Jane greeted him with a pathetic gentleness of manner that was meant to take the place of the words she dared not speak. He turned from her only to meet Virginia's laboured cheerfulness; and he was troubled and ill at ease; yet he made a tolerable success of maintaining that air of judicial composure in which he usually took refuge when he came near to suffering. He even made certain tentative and austere attempts at playfulness with the baby; and then he drifted into small talk which he felt to be as leaden as it was small. When at last he rose to take his leave he said to Mrs. Walsh:

“I hope I shall come back with good news for you,” and he held out his hand in farewell. His words brought them sharply back to the actualities. Jane looked up quickly from the sewing which her small hands now clutched despairingly.

“Good-bye!” and then a low cry broke from her. “You will bring them back?” and her tears began to fall.

“I shall try,” he said gravely. “But we must all be hopeful.” Then he looked into Virginia's serious eyes, and caught the tremor of her lips; and was silent. What right had he to speak his senseless platitudes; he who was on the outside of all this sorrow?

He turned away; Virginia followed him, and they moved in silence across the lawn. It was Virginia who spoke first.

“You will write me as each stage of your journey is finished; won't you, Mr. Benson? And you will leave nothing undone? You will not come back until you know?” She dwelt upon the last word with almost tragic insistence. Her wistful glance searched his face. “Forgive me, I know I have no right to question it, but you will not rest content until you have exhausted every source from which knowledge may be gleaned? Days and weeks, even months, will not count with you?”

“Neither weeks nor months shall count with me. I shall do all that money and devotion can do. I shall not turn back until I know,” he said simply.

“I am sure of it, Mr. Benson; and I thank you again and again!”

“I shall go direct to Fort Laramie,” he said. “We know they have reached there in safety; from there on I shall ransack the country for news of them. I may be able to send you letters after I leave Fort Laramie; I will if I meet any parties of returning emigrants. At any rate you will hear from me when I reach Salt Lake. If I find they passed through Salt Lake, I shall push on to the coast, and pursue my search in the various mining camps; at least, this is the plan I have decided upon; but when I get West, I may find it advisable to take a somewhat different course; but you will understand.”

“I shall know you are doing all any one can do, Mr. Benson.”

“The arrangement I have made with Judge Bradly admits of an indefinite absence on my part. I shall not be hurried; I shall take my time, and leave nothing undone that holds the shadow of a hope. You will need money before I return, and you are to go to the judge for that; your affairs are temporarily in his hands. There is just one thing I beg of you; don't let your sister take advantage of your kindness in money matters. Bush provided for her, and there is absolutely no reason why you should make sacrifices, or continue those you have already made.”

“I will remember.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. I hate injustice, I hate to see you the victim of it.”

“Have I been? It has all seemed so unimportant; but perhaps I have done wrong. I shall remember all you have said to me.”

“I wish you would,” he said. “And another matter, you have not told Mrs. Walsh just how matters stand with her, about that brother-in-law of hers?”

Virginia shook her head.

“I haven't had the courage.”

Benson gave a sigh of relief.

“I am glad you haven't. Well, let her go to the judge, too, he understands; it will be all right.”

“You are very generous,-Mr. Benson.”

He reddened at this.

“Oh, no, it's not that. What I may do is nothing to what you are doing; and I still reproach myself with that.”

“But you needn't. It has given me something to do, something to think of.”

They had reached the lane. He vaulted lightly over the low bars, and from the other side held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Landray; I shall be very busy until I go, and unless you need me, it is doubtful if I find time to come out here again.”

“How shall you go?” she asked.

“By stage to Portsmouth.”

“And when?”

“This day week.”

There was a pause; then Virginia said slowly.

“I shall miss you, Mr. Benson. I begin to understand how dependent your kindness has made me.”

“You are to go to the judge for everything, you know?” he said. “Advice, and all that. You'll find him very kind.”

“Yes—but I do not think he can take your place.”

An unexpected joy shone in Benson's face.

Virginia's glance sought the wooded heights of Landray's Hill. There she had seen the last of Stephen Landray. Now a long line of freight wagons was just disappearing about the turn in the road where months before she had caught the flutter of his handkerchief. She pressed her hand to her heart. What had she been thinking of, why had she let him go? Even then she might have stopped him; it was not too late—but she had let him go. She rested her arms on the bars, while uncontrollable sobs shook her.

Benson watched her, white-faced and miserable, and with a bitter sense of the futility of words. A puff of wind showered the bowed head with the petals of the apple blossoms, which caught among the masses of her hair. For a moment Benson looked with all the hunger of his love in his eyes; and then he turned away.

He had begun to unfasten his horse when a hand was placed upon his arm, and Virginia was smiling on him through her tears.

“If I am not to see you again, I want to thank you once more for what you are doing for us.”

“It is nothing,” he assured her. “Please don't think of it.”

“But I do, I must, perhaps I am very cruel and heartless to allow you to go. If it was dangerous for them, it is equally dangerous for you. Suppose something should happen to you—I should have this to reproach myself with to the end of my days.”

“But nothing will happen to me!” and he laughed confidently, but she regarded him with questioning gravity. It occurred to her that he was very young, and that perhaps she had taken advantage of this quality of youth, and generous enthusiasm. She felt a pang of remorse at the thought.

“Please don't worry about me, Mrs. Landray,” he said. “Or I shall be quite desperate,” but he was too sane to misinterpret her interest; he accepted it at its full value; his vanity added nothing to it. But the next moment she had forgotten him.

“You will not neglect to write?” she repeated anxiously.

He understood the change, and, oddly enough was relieved by it.

“No, Mrs. Landray, you shall hear from me as often as you could wish.”

He held out his hand again.

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

She stood watching him as he rode down the lane; and she was still watching him when he turned from the lane into the road.

Benson was as good as his word. Just one week later he left by stage for Columbus. From there he went to Portsmouth, still by stage, where he took a fast river packet for St. Louis. Arrived at St. Louis he first established himself at a hotel and then hunted up Gibbs, whom he finally located in a dingy room over a grocery store. A sign announced it to be a “Printing Office,” and when he had mounted a long, and exceedingly steep flight of stairs, he found himself in a small room, furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a dictionary; while in a larger room that opened off from it were presses and tables. In the far corner of the larger room he descried an inky youth who was busy setting type; to him Benson made his presence known.

“You want the colonel? Well, I'll have him here in no time.” And he stuck his head out of the open window at his elbow, and called to some one in the street below.

“Hi, there! Just step round to the licker store in the next block and ask Colonel Gibbs to step this way! Gentleman wants to see him! It's right handy for him,” he explained to the lawyer.

“So it's Colonel Gibbs?” said the latter smiling.

“Yes, sir, Colonel Gibbs.”

“Since when?” asked Benson.

The youth seemed to regard this as an excellent joke.

“I reckon he was born that way,” he answered facetiously.

Here they were interrupted by a vociferous protest from the street, and the youth again stuck his head out of the window.

“You say he ain't there? Did you look for him good?” he demanded being assured on this point he requested the person in the street to go over to James's drug store. “I shouldn't wonder if he ain't playing checkers there,” he added.

This quest proved successful, for two minutes later the captain, wearing an air of cheerful and contented prosperity, bustled into the room.

“Bless me! Is it you, Jake?” he cried in astonishment, on seeing whom his visitor was.

Benson's greeting was curt but civil.

“Where are you stopping?” asked Gibbs. “And what are you doing here, anyhow? Not that it is any of my business, for it ain't.”

Benson briefly explained the nature of the mission that was taking him West, and as he did so, the captain rubbed the tip of his nose with his forefinger, regarding him the while with a growing wonder.

“Have a drink?” he demanded, when the lawyer had finished.

“No.”

“Signed the pledge?”

“No.”

“Oh! Joined the Infant Bands of Hope?”

Benson smiled at this sally, and the captain laughed.

“So you're going to find Stephen Landray?” he said, suddenly checking his mirth. “Considering the size of your contract, you take it easy enough, but I guess you don't know what you're in for.”

“Have you still that knife, Gibbs?”

“Yes, it's in my desk here.”

“I'd like to look at it if you have no objection.”

“Not the least in the world,” and he produced it from the disorder of a pigeonhole. Benson took it and examined it.

“I wish you'd give me this,” he said.

“Want it for yourself?”

Benson shook his head.

“Well, present it to her as coming from me, will you?”

“Certainly,” and Benson slipped the blade back into the sheath, and the sheath into his pocket. Gibbs watched him with a smile that constantly widened.

“So you are going across the plains to look for Stephen Landray?” he observed drily.

“Yes.”

“Interested in finding any of the others of the party?” asked the captain.

“I am as much interested in the others as I am in him,” said Benson quickly.

“Oh, no you ain't, you don't give more than a casual damn about the others. I can tell you why you're going—no—you don't want me to? Well, I'll tell you anyhow; she asked you to.” He shook his finger playfully in Benson's face. “Oh, fie—fie, my dear young friend, and you would have me think your motive purely disinterested.”

Benson shrugged his shoulders, and said rather sternly:

“I'm sorry you find it difficult to believe in my disinterestedness.”

The captain closed one eye, he was in a most jocular mood.

“Not for a beautifully sane character like you, Jake; there's a lake down in Georgia that's six miles across and four inches deep, but you ain't like that lake; there's a good deal of your father in you. It will come out one of these days, and when it does you will take the skin right off of people's backs, and you will do it without a pang.”

“Thanks,” said Benson.

“Don't mention it,” retorted the captain airily. “It ain't worth while. I can't let you claim all the virtues, something's due fallen humanity.”

“I have disposed of the tavern for Julia.” The lawyer was willing to change the subject.

“First the man of sentiment, now the man of affairs.” And Gibbs beamed upon him. “How much will it fetch?”

“Four thousand dollars. I have brought the papers for Julia to sign.”

The captain beamed upon him afresh.

“That's good; but before I forget it I want to tell you a thing or two that may be of use to you. You don't quite like me yet, but you'll like me better when you know me better, and meantime I am going to serve you in several ways, all touching this mission of yours. I happen to know a trader who is outfitting for Fort Bridger; I am going to introduce you to him and you can cross the plains with him. My advice is that you begin your search at Salt Lake; that knife was purchased of a freighter who was coming out, so Stephen must have reached Salt Lake, or some point near there. If he passed through the city he must have had dealings with the Mormons; you may find some one who will remember him.”

“Yes,” said Benson, “you are working it out just about as I worked it out. I am glad to have your opinion,” he concluded frankly.

“Now we'll go to the house and see Julia,” said Gibbs. “It isn't far, and then I'll take you to the tavern where the trader I spoke of is stopping; that's not far either.”

To Benson, this meeting with his cousin was an embarrassing ordeal, for she received him with an effusive cordiality that was quite unexpected, and to which he found it next to impossible to respond, but Gibbs came at once to his rescue. He fell to explaining the purpose that had brought him West, and with a secret relish and a significance of manner that made Benson's cheeks redden with anger. Mrs. Gibbs, however, was, fortunately, quite oblivious to his meaning, and his studied reiteration of Stephen Landray's name conveyed no idea to her; she evidently accepted her cousin's mission at its face value, a fact which only added to the captain's amusement. When Gibbs finally subsided, Benson quickly concluded his business, and announced that he was ready to go in search of the trader.

“Rodney, my dear,” explained the captain.

“Such a nice man, Jacob; I'll go, too, and ask him to take the best of care of you,” said Mrs. Gibbs.

Benson entered a feeble protest; he was mainly concerned in wishing to escape from this rascally pair, but the captain cut his protest short by saying:

“Then hurry into your bonnet, Julia, for Jake's got no time to spare.”

And presently they emerged upon the street, accompanied by Mrs. Gibbs, resplendent as to dress, and affectionately leaning on the captain's arm, the very picture of wifely devotion. The moral squalor of the pair moved Benson to a disgust so deep that he found it necessary to cloak his sense of outraged decency in a lofty silence.

They found Rodney lodged at a small tavern near the outskirts of the city. To him Gibbs explained the case, and introduced Benson, and the black browed trader professed himself as delighted at the prospect of the latter's company.

“When do you start?” asked Benson.

“At daybreak to-morrow,” answered Rodney.

“You'll need a horse and arms,” said Gibbs. “We'll go buy them now, and you'd better arrange to sleep here to-night.”

“Indeed, he'll do nothing of the kind,” expostulated Mrs. Gibbs.

“My dear, I'm thinking only of his comfort,” said the captain meekly. “He'll spend the evening with us.” And to this the helpless Benson yielded a reluctant assent, but he saw an end to the civilities they were thrusting upon him; this fact alone made the situation tolerable.

Gibbs was a real help, however; he knew the proprietor of a stockyard who had for sale just such a horse as Benson would require, and to this man's place of business the three now repaired, where the captain drove a sharp bargain, and secured what afterward proved to be a most serviceable animal; next he selected a saddle and a rifle and two pistols, and then he relinquished Benson to Mrs. Gibbs, who shopped industriously in half a dozen stores in his interest, and with such vigour and decision that at the end of two hours she had accumulated what her husband declared to be an entirely adequate outfit. By way of a gift, Julia added a case of needles and thread and the captain, not to be outdone, a drinking flask, and the purchases were bundled up and a negro dispatched with them to the tavern, there to await Benson's arrival.

While this questionable pair had been exerting themselves in his behalf, Benson's righteous disapproval of them had slowly dissipated itself. There was something bohemian and reckless about them, a suggestion of easy improvidence, a joyous freedom from responsibility, that was new to him. The captain, swaggering much, his hat cocked well over one ear, and with manfully swelling chest under a vivid velvet vest, twirled a light walking-stick with happy nonchalance. He was assertive and noisy, perhaps, but eminently good-natured. Benson smiled and wondered. Evidently the next best thing to having a good conscience was to have no conscience at all. And Julia, with her fine eyes and clear skin, a handsome, dashing figure, cousined him with a confiding affection that quite disarmed him; he couldn't approve, but they seemed happy and well satisfied with each other; and he allowed them to bear him back to their home in triumph.

It was quite late when he reached the tavern, whither the captain had insisted on accompanying him, and as they shook hands cordially at parting, the latter said:

“I'll see you in the morning, Jake, so I won't say good-bye now.”

“I wish you wouldn't bother, Gibbs, it will be very early, you know.”

“I shan't mind that, Jake. I'm going to see you off.”

Before Benson went to bed that night he wrote to Virginia, and arranged his purchases, stowing them away in the canvas packs he had bought for that purpose; then he undressed and stretched himself out on the bed.

It was barely dawn, and he seemed to have slept but an hour or so, when he heard Rodney pounding on his door, bidding him be stirring. He dressed by candle-light, and hurried downstairs, where he found the trader and his two Mexican packers already at breakfast.

In the inn yard their horses were being saddled and the heavy packs with which the trader's mules were to be freighted were ready to be strapped to the backs of the animals.

When they had finished their breakfast, Benson followed Rodney into the yard. As he swung himself into the saddle the lawyer felt he was about to turn his back on the decorous, and, as he would have expressed it, the civilized life of the East, and he gave a last thought to his clients, and hoped the judge would do his best by them.

But he had no sooner left the yard than he dismounted hastily, for there, hurrying up the street, was the captain and Mrs. Gibbs.

“She would come, Jake!” panted the captain. “I told her you wouldn't expect it, but she would come!”

“It was very kind of you,” said Benson, “but I don't know that I deserved it.”

“Law!” cried Mrs. Gibbs briskly. “Do you think I'd let you go off like this without seeing the last of you?” and she bestowed a vigorous embrace upon him.

“I fear I'm keeping them waiting,” said Benson. “Good-bye, Gibbs—good-bye, Julia—God bless you both! I shall see you when I return. Good-bye.” He kissed Mrs. Gibbs, shook hands warmly with the captain, and mounted his horse again.

Now that he was really going, and the parting over with, Mrs. Gibbs wept copiously, while the captain endeavoured to console her.

As he rode away after Rodney, Benson looked back more than once, and saw them move slowly off up the street, arm in arm; the captain with expanding chest and twirling cane, and Mrs. Gibbs still plying her handkerchief; and this was the last he saw of them in many a long day.