n to his
dinner.

No out-of-doors for him that day, he decided, when he had washed the few
dishes and put them neatly away; and he wondered how wet Hall was and
whether he had succeeded in picking up a deer.

At one o'clock there came a knock at the door, and when he opened it a
man and a woman staggered in on the breast of a great gust of wind. They
were Mr. and Mrs. Spillane, ranchers, who lived in a lonely valley a
dozen miles back from the river.

"Where's Hall?" was Spillane's opening speech, and he spoke sharply and
quickly.

Jerry noted that he was nervous and abrupt in his movements, and that
Mrs. Spillane seemed laboring under some strong anxiety. She was a thin,
washed-out, worked-out woman, whose life of dreary and unending toil had
stamped itself harshly upon her face. It was the same life that had
bowed her husband's shoulders and gnarled his hands and turned his hair
to a dry and dusty gray.

"He's gone hunting up Cripple Cow," Jerry answered. "Did you want to
cross?"

The woman began to weep quietly, while Spillane dropped a troubled
exclamation and strode to the window. Jerry joined him in gazing out to
where the cables lost themselves in the thick downpour.

It was the custom of the backwoods people in that section of country
to cross the Sacramento on the Yellow Dragon cable. For this service a
small toll was charged, which tolls the Yellow Dragon Company applied to
the payment of Hall's wages.

"We've got to get across, Jerry," Spillane said, at the same time
jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his wife. "Her
father's hurt at the Clover Leaf. Powder explosion. Not expected to
live. We just got word."

Jerry felt himself fluttering inwardly. He knew that Spillane wanted to
cross on the Yellow Dream cable, and in the absence of his father he
felt that he dared not assume such a responsibility, for the cable had
never been used for passengers; in fact, had not been used at all for a
long time.

"Maybe Hall will be back soon," he said.

Spillane shook his head, and demanded, "Where's your father?"

"San Francisco," Jerry answered, briefly.

Spillane groaned, and fiercely drove his clenched fist into the palm of
the other hand. His wife was crying more audibly, and Jerry could hear
her murmuring, "And daddy's dyin', dyin'!"

The tears welled up in his own eyes, and he stood irresolute, not
knowing what he should do. But the man decided for him.

"Look here, kid," he