h to that boat's keel until one of those Chinese
fishermen, in a 'dug-out,' hauled me in opposite Saucelito. I chartered
him and his dug-out to bring me down here."

"Why here?" asked Patterson, with a certain ostentatious caution that
ill-concealed his pensive satisfaction.

"You may well ask," returned Tucker, with an equal ostentation of
bitterness, as he slightly waved his companion away. "But I reckoned I
could trust a white man that I'd been kind to, and who wouldn't go back
on me. No, no, let me go! Hand me over to the sheriff!"

Patterson had suddenly grasped both the hands of the picturesque scamp
before him, with an affection that for an instant almost shamed the man
who had ruined him. But Tucker's egotism whispered that this affection
was only a recognition of his own superiority, and felt flattered. He
was beginning to believe that he was really the injured party.

"What I HAVE and what I have HAD is yours, Spence," returned Patterson,
with a sad and simple directness that made any further discussion a
gratuitous insult. "I only wanted to know what you reckoned to do here."

"I want to get over across the Coast Range to Monterey," said Tucker.
"Once there, one of those coasting schooners will bring me down to
Acapulco, where the ship will put in."

Patterson remained silent for a moment. "There's a mustang in the corral
you can take--leastways, I shan't know that it's gone--until to-morrow
afternoon. In an hour from now," he added, looking from the window,
"these clouds will settle down to business. It will rain; there will
be light enough for you to find your way by the regular trail over the
mountain, but not enough for any one to know you. If you can't push
through to-night, you can lie over at the posada on the summit. Them
greasers that keep it won't know you, and if they did they won't go back
on you. And if they did go back on you, nobody would believe them. It's
mighty curious," he added, with gloomy philosophy, "but I reckon it's
the reason why Providence allows this kind of cattle to live among white
men and others made in his image. Take a piece of pie, won't you?" He
continued, abandoning this abstract reflection and producing half a flat
pumpkin pie from the bar. Spencer Tucker grasped the pie with one hand
and his friend's fingers with the other, and for a few moments was
silent from the hurried deglutition of viand and sentiment. "YOU'RE a
white man, Patterson, anyway," he resumed. "I'll