When he came to he was being lifted in a boat from the tug and rowed through the deserted streets of a large city, until he was taken in through the second-story window of a half-submerged hotel and cared for.  But all his questions yielded only the information that the tug—­a privately procured one, not belonging to the Public Relief Association—­had been dispatched for him with special directions, by a man who acted as one of the crew, and who was the one who had plunged in for him at the last moment.  The man had left the boat at Stockton.  There was nothing more?  Yes!—­he had left a letter.  Morse seized it feverishly.  It contained only a few lines: 

We are quits now.  You are all right.  I have saved you from drowning, and shifted the curse to my own shoulders.  Good-by.

Captain Jack.

The astounded man attempted to rise—­to utter an exclamation—­but fell back, unconscious.

Weeks passed before he was able to leave his bed—­and then only as an impoverished and physically shattered man.  He had no means to restock the farm left bare by the subsiding water.  A kindly train-packer offered him a situation as muleteer in a pack train going to the mountains—­for he knew tracks and passes and could ride.  The mountains gave him back a little of the vigor he had lost in the river valley, but none of its dreams and ambitions.  One day, while tracking a lost mule, he stopped to slake his thirst in a waterhole—­all that the summer had left of a lonely mountain torrent.  Enlarging the hole to give drink to his beast also, he was obliged to dislodge and throw out with the red soil some bits of honeycomb rock, which were so queer-looking and so heavy as to attract his attention.  Two of the largest he took back to camp with him.  They were gold!  From the locality he took out a fortune.  Nobody wondered.  To the Californian’s superstition it was perfectly natural.  It was “nigger luck”—­the luck of the stupid, the ignorant, the inexperienced, the nonseeker—­the irony of the gods!

But the simple, bucolic nature that had sustained itself against temptation with patient industry and lonely self-concentration succumbed to rapidly acquired wealth.  So it chanced that one day, with a crowd of excitement-loving spendthrifts and companions, he found himself on the outskirts of a lawless mountain town.  An eager, frantic crowd had already assembled there—­a desperado was to be lynched!  Pushing his way through the crowd for a nearer view of the exciting spectacle, the changed and reckless Morse was stopped by armed men only at the foot of a cart, which upheld a quiet, determined man, who, with a rope around his neck, was scornfully surveying the mob, that held the other end of the rope drawn across the limb of a tree above him.  The eyes of the doomed man caught those of Morse—­his expression changed—­a kindly smile lit his face—­he bowed his proud head for the first time, with an easy gesture of farewell.