A few minutes later, when Stephen Landray pulled up before the tavern with Sam and the man who was to help back from Cincinnati with the horses and gear, he found that the teams were being led from the inn stable by Dunlevy and the tardy Bingham; they were whistling, “O, Susanna!” but they paused to hail him with boisterous good-will, and he returned their greeting with curt civility; their cheerfulness being the reverse of agreeable to him just then, for his thoughts were all of Virginia; each word and look of her's, each eloquent gesture, seemed to burn in his memory. To part from her had been so hard and cruel a thing to do, that his courage had almost failed him; and he had driven into town hoping, absurd as he knew the hope was, that something might have occurred to block the venture; and under his breath he cursed the implacable zeal of his teamsters, who were leaving nothing they desired not to leave, since no ties bound them to one spot of earth more than another. He would have welcomed with joy, a single day's delay; but that was not to be, and he looked about him with a feeling of utter helplessness. Under the parted hood of one of the wagons, and holding a lantern between his knees, he saw the Californian with Benny at his side. Two spots of vivid colour burned on Rogers's hollow cheeks; his dark eyes were wondrously brilliant; a smile hovered about the corners of his mouth; he was knowing a foretaste of success. At last, out of talk and argument, endless considering and planning, out of the deluge of words that had preceded any actual doing, he had been able to get these men started. Seeing Stephen, he cried triumphantly: “I'll show you California before you see this again, Mr. Landray!” and he swept the square with a fine free gesture. “Is Bush here—and where is Walsh?” asked Stephen. “Your brother's indoors, I haven't seen Walsh.” “He hasn't come yet, Mr. Landray,” said Dunlevy, tightening a hame strap. “Something's gone wrong with Tucker,” said Rogers, “but I didn't stay to see what it was. I'm off for California, and we don't climb down out of here until the first stage of the journey's done; do we, son?” In the tavern, as he had intimated, all was confusion. Levi Tucker, powerfully excited, was stamping back and forth in front of his bar; while Landray and the lawyer were vainly seeking to calm him. “Here's a pretty mess,” said the former as Stephen entered the room. “Tucker's wife seems to be missing.” “Seems to be missing!” cried the innkeeper furiously. “I tell you, Bush, she's skipped clean out! Left me, do you hear? Left me! Well, I hope he'll trim the nonsense out of her—I do that!” “What's this?” demanded Stephen, looking first from one to the other of the three men. “He thinks Julia has run away,” said Benson quietly, but his face was rather white. Mrs. Tucker was his cousin.