“Yes—this is Governor Young?” he was rather at a loss to know how to address this dignitary, whose peculiar functions were about evenly divided between the religious and civil; this ex-painter and glazier who, to some thousands of his fellows was a god in his own right, as well as prophet and ruler; who ran mills, and sold cordwood, or dealt in groceries; and who, in the midst of these activities found time to balk and insult a weak, vacillating Government at Washington, and drive its representatives out of the State he had founded in the desert, when they chanced to fall under his displeasure, as they were sure to do if they attempted to enforce the law they had been sent thither to uphold. Standing there, square and broad, full personed and vital, with his ruddy cheeks and square chin, he looked the man he was; capable, magnetic, determined, and not too weakly scrupulous, perhaps not scrupulous at all. Each devoted a moment to the scrutiny of the other. “Well, sir, how can I be of use to you?” asked Young. “I hardly know that you can be,” said Benson. “It's a chance, and I fear a remote one; still, I am very grateful to you for granting me this audience.” “Have a seat,” said the governor. “I am not intruding on your time?” “Not in the least. Now, sir?” When they had seated themselves. “I have come from Ohio,” explained Benson, “and on what, I begin to fear, is a hopeless quest.” And as briefly as possible he told his story. Once or twice he fancied that Young started, or it might have been that he merely moved in his chair; but he paid him the compliment of the closest attention and his interest did not relax until Benson had concluded his narrative. Then he asked sharply: “What reason have you to suppose that I can help you?” and he watched the effect of this question, but Benson met his glance quite frankly as he answered: “None. But it is my hope that you can, that you may be willing to exert yourself in my behalf.” “But how?” demanded Young. “That I hardly know,” said Benson reluctantly. “Unless you can aid me to find the freighter from whom Stephen Landray's knife was purchased.” “A great many of our people are engaged in transporting supplies and colonists across the plains.” “Perhaps you will suggest a more direct method; I confess I am finding myself rather at a loss in the matter.” “I suppose you are aware that your friends might have been stricken with the cholera, for instance; or the Indians may have killed them; or they may have gone astray on the plains and so lost their lives; or they may have been made prisoners by the Indians, may even now be prisoners? Or,” continued Young, “for reasons of their own they may wish you to think something of this sort has happened, and at this moment be alive and well in California.” “That,” said Benson, “is quite impossible. If they are alive their families would have heard from them.”