Attributing this only to the vague convulsions of a drowning man, Morse, a skilled swimmer, managed to clutch his shoulder, and propelled him at arm’s length, still struggling, apparently with as much reluctance as incapacity, toward the bank.  As their feet touched the reeds and slimy bottom the man’s resistance ceased, and he lapsed quite listlessly in Morse’s arms.  Half lifting, half dragging his burden, he succeeded at last in gaining the strip of meadow, and deposited the unconscious man beneath the willow tree.  Then he ran to his wagon for whisky.

But, to his surprise, on his return the man was already sitting up and wringing the water from his clothes.  He then saw for the first time, by the clear moonlight, that the stranger was elegantly dressed and of striking appearance, and was clearly a part of that bright and fascinating world which Morse had been contemplating in his solitude.  He eagerly took the proffered tin cup and drank the whisky.  Then he rose to his feet, staggered a few steps forward, and glanced curiously around him at the still motionless wagon, the few felled trees and evidence of “clearing,” and even at the rude cabin of logs and canvas just beginning to rise from the ground a few paces distant, and said, impatiently: 

“Where the devil am I?”

Morse hesitated.  He was unable to name the locality of his dwelling-place.  He answered briefly: 

“On the right bank of the Sacramento.”

The stranger turned upon him a look of suspicion not unmingled with resentment.  “Oh!” he said, with ironical gravity, “and I suppose that this water you picked me out of was the Sacramento River.  Thank you!”

Morse, with slow Western patience, explained that he had only settled there three weeks ago, and the place had no name.

“What’s your nearest town, then?”

“Thar ain’t any.  Thar’s a blacksmith’s shop and grocery at the crossroads, twenty miles further on, but it’s got no name as I’ve heard on.”

The stranger’s look of suspicion passed.  “Well,” he said, in an imperative fashion, which, however, seemed as much the result of habit as the occasion, “I want a horse, and mighty quick, too.”

“H’ain’t got any.”

“No horse?  How did you get to this place?”

Morse pointed to the slumbering oxen.

The stranger again stared curiously at him.  After a pause he said, with a half-pitying, half-humorous smile:  “Pike—­aren’t you?”

Whether Morse did or did not know that this current California slang for a denizen of the bucolic West implied a certain contempt, he replied simply: 

“I’m from Pike County, Mizzouri.”

“Well,” said the stranger, resuming his impatient manner, “you must beg or steal a horse from your neighbors.”

“Thar ain’t any neighbor nearer than fifteen miles.”

“Then send fifteen miles!  Stop.”  He opened his still clinging shirt and drew out a belt pouch, which he threw to Morse.  “There! there’s two hundred and fifty dollars in that.  Now, I want a horse.  Sabe?”