*****

“I always suspected that Jackson was playin’ us about that red-haired cousin,” said Rice two weeks later; “but I can’t swallow that purp stuff about her puttin’ him up to that dodge about a new gold discovery on a fresh claim, just to knock out Brown.  No, sir.  He found that gold in openin’ these irrigatin’ trenches,—­the usual nigger luck, findin’ what you’re not lookin’ arter.”

“Well, we can’t complain, for he’s offered to work it on shares with us,” said Briggs.

“Yes—­until he’s ready to take in another partner.”

“Not—­Brown?” said his horrified companions.

“No!—­but Brown’s adopted daughter—­that red-haired cousin!”

THE REINCARNATION OF SMITH

The extravagant supper party by which Mr. James Farendell celebrated the last day of his bachelorhood was protracted so far into the night, that the last guest who parted from him at the door of the principal Sacramento restaurant was for a moment impressed with the belief that a certain ruddy glow in the sky was already the dawn.  But Mr. Farendell had kept his head clear enough to recognize it as the light of some burning building in a remote business district, a not infrequent occurrence in the dry season.  When he had dismissed his guest he turned away in that direction for further information.  His own counting-house was not in that immediate neighborhood, but Sacramento had been once before visited by a rapid and far-sweeping conflagration, and it behooved him to be on the alert even on this night of festivity.

Perhaps also a certain anxiety arose out of the occasion.  He was to be married to-morrow to the widow of his late partner, and the marriage, besides being an attractive one, would settle many business difficulties.  He had been a fortunate man, but, like many more fortunate men, was not blind to the possibilities of a change of luck.  The death of his partner in a successful business had at first seemed to betoken that change, but his successful, though hasty, courtship of the inexperienced widow had restored his chances without greatly shocking the decorum of a pioneer community.  Nevertheless, he was not a contented man, and hardly a determined—­although an energetic one.

A walk of a few moments brought him to the levee of the river,—­a favored district, where his counting-house, with many others, was conveniently situated.  In these early days only a few of these buildings could be said to be permanent,—­fire and flood perpetually threatened them.  They were merely temporary structures of wood, or in the case of Mr. Farendell’s office, a shell of corrugated iron, sheathing a one-storied wooden frame, more or less elaborate in its interior decorations.  By the time he had reached it, the distant fire had increased.  On his way he had met and recognized many of his business acquaintances hurrying thither,—­some to save their own property, or to assist the imperfectly equipped volunteer fire department in their unselfish labors.  It was probably Mr. Farendell’s peculiar preoccupation on that particular night which had prevented his joining in their brotherly zeal.