The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow
lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river, and
every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a
tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down
giant trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red
Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned.
"Water put the gold into them gulches," said Stumpy. "It's been here
once and will be here again!" And that night the North Fork suddenly
leaped over its banks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring
Camp.

In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling
timber, and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot
out the fair valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered
camp. When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-
bank, was gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky
owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had
disappeared. They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from the
bank recalled them.

It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they
said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below.
Did anybody know them, and did they belong here?

It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly
crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his
arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the
child was cold and pulseless. "He is dead," said one. Kentuck opened
his eyes. "Dead?" he repeated feebly. "Yes, my man, and you are dying
too." A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. "Dying!" he