“Have you any idea what you’ll do, Wise?” I ask.

“Thar ain’t much to do now,” says the practical young man.  “I’ll have to lay over a spell, I reckon, till things comes straight.  The land ain’t worth much now, and won’t be, I dessay, for some time.  Wonder whar the ole man’ll drive stakes next.”

“I meant as to your father and George, Wise.”

“Oh, the old man and I’ll go on to ‘Miles’s,’ whar Tom packed the old woman and babies last week.  George’ll turn up somewhar atween this and Altascar’s ef he ain’t thar now.”

I ask how the Altascars have suffered.

“Well, I reckon he ain’t lost much in stock.  I shouldn’t wonder if George helped him drive ’em up the foothills.  And his casa’s built too high.  Oh, thar ain’t any water thar, you bet.  Ah,” says Wise, with reflective admiration, “those greasers ain’t the darned fools people thinks ’em.  I’ll bet thar ain’t one swamped out in all ’er Californy.”  But the appearance of “grub” cut this rhapsody short.

“I shall keep on a little farther,” I say, “and try to find George.”

Wise stared a moment at this eccentricity until a new light dawned upon him.

“I don’t think you’ll save much.  What’s the percentage—­workin’ on shares, eh!”

I answer that I am only curious, which I feel lessens his opinion of me, and with a sadder feeling than his assurance of George’s safety might warrant, I walked away.

From others whom we picked up from time to time we heard of George’s self-sacrificing devotion, with the praises of the many he had helped and rescued.  But I did not feel disposed to return until I had seen him, and soon prepared myself to take a boat to the lower Valda of the foothills, and visit Altascar.  I soon perfected my arrangements, bade farewell to Wise, and took a last look at the old man, who was sitting by the furnace fires quite passive and composed.  Then our boat head swung round, pulled by sturdy and willing hands.

It was again raining, and a disagreeable wind had risen.  Our course lay nearly west, and we soon knew by the strong current that we were in the creek of the Espiritu Santo.  From time to time the wrecks of barns were seen, and we passed many half-submerged willows hung with farming implements.

We emerge at last into a broad silent sea.  It is the “Llano de Espiritu Santo.”  As the wind whistles by me, piling the shallower fresh water into mimic waves, I go back, in fancy, to the long ride of October over that boundless plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distant hills, which are now lost in the lowering clouds.  The men are rowing silently, and I find my mind, released from its tension, growing benumbed and depressed as then.  The water, too, is getting more shallow as we leave the banks of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlessly over the thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the tide to have somewhat fallen.  There is a black mound, bearing to the north of the line of alder, making an adverse current, which, as we sweep to the right to avoid, I recognize.  We pull close alongside and I call to the men to stop.