J. Ross Browne

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CHAPTER I.

THE CANNIBAL.

In the summer of 1849 I had occasion to visit San Luis Obispo, a small town about two hundred and fifty miles south of San Francisco. At that time no steamers touched at the Embarcadera, and but little dependence could be placed upon the small sailing craft that occasionally visited that isolated part of the coast. The trail through the Salinas and Santa Marguerita valleys was considered the only reliable route, though even that was not altogether as safe as could be desired. A portion of the country lying between the Old Mission of Soledad and San Miguel was infested by roving bands of Sonoranians and lawless native Californians. Several drovers, who had started from San Francisco by this route to purchase cattle on the southern ranches, had never reached their destination. It was generally believed that they had been murdered on the way. Indeed, in two instances, this fact was established by the discovery of the mutilated remains of the murdered men. No clew could be obtained to the perpetrators of the deed, nor do I know that any legal measures were taken to find them. At that period the only laws existing were those administered by the alcaldes, under the Mexican system, which had been temporarily adopted in connection with the provisional government established by General Riley. The people generally were too deeply interested in the development of the gold regions to give themselves much concern about the condition of other parts of the country, and the chances of bringing criminals to punishment in the southern districts were very remote.

Mirage in the Salinas Valley

MIRAGE IN THE SALINAS VALLEY.

My business was connected with the revenue service. A vessel laden with foreign goods had been wrecked on the coast within a short distance of San Luis. It was necessary that immediate official inquiry should be made into the circumstances, with a view of securing payment of duties upon the cargo. I was also charged with a commission to establish a line of post-offices on the land-route to Los Angeles, and enter into contracts for the carrying of the mails.

By the advice of some friends in San Francisco, I purchased a fine-looking mule recently from the Colorado. The owner, a Texan gentleman, assured me that he had never mounted a better animal; and, so far as I was capable of judging, the recommendation seemed to be justly merited. I willingly paid him his price—three hundred dollars. Next day, having provided myself with a good pair of blankets, a few pounds of coffee, sugar, and hard bread, and a hunting-knife and tin cup, I bade adieu to my friends and set out on my journey. A tedious voyage of six months around Cape Horn had given me a peculiar relish for shore-life. There was something very pleasant in the novelty of the scenery and the inspiring freshness of the air. The rush of emigrants from all parts of the world; the amusing scenes along the road; the free, social, and hopeful spirit which prevailed among all classes; the clear, bright sky, and wonderful richness of coloring that characterized the atmosphere, all contributed to produce the most agreeable sensations. It was a long and rather hazardous journey I had undertaken, and it would doubtless be very lonesome after passing San Jose; but the idea of depending solely on my own resources, and becoming, in some sort, an adventurer in an almost unknown country, had something in it irresistibly captivating to one of my roving disposition. I had traveled through Texas under nearly similar circumstances, and enjoyed many pleasant recollections of the trip. There is a charm about this wild sort of life, the entire freedom from restraint, the luxury of fresh air, the camp under the trees, with a bright fire and a canopy of stars overhead, that, once experienced, can never be forgotten.

Nothing of importance occurred till the evening of the fourth day. I met crowds of travelers all along the road, singing and shouting in sheer exuberance of spirit; and not unfrequently had some very pleasant and congenial company, bound either to the mines or in search of vacant government land for the location of claims. The road through the valleys of Santa Clara and San Jose was perfectly enchanting, winding through oak groves, and fields of wild oats and flowers; and nothing could exceed the balminess of the air. Indeed, the whole country seemed to me more like a succession of beautiful parks, in which each turn of the road might bring in view some elegant mansion, with sweeping lawns in front, and graceful ladies mounted on palfreys, than a rude and uncivilized part of the world hitherto almost unknown.

I stopped a night at San Jose, where I was most hospitably received by the alcalde, an American gentleman of intelligence, to whom I had a letter of introduction. Next day, after a pleasant ride of forty-five miles, I reached the Mission of San Juan, one of the most eligibly located of all the old missionary establishments. It was now in a state of decay. The vineyards were but partially cultivated, and the secos, or ditches for the irrigation of the land, were entirely dry. I got some very good pears from the old Spaniard in charge of the mission—a rare luxury after a long sea-voyage. The only tavern in the place was the "United States," kept by an American and his wife in an old adobe house, originally a part of the missionary establishment. Having secured accommodations for my mule, I took up my quarters for the night at the "United States." The woman seemed to be the principal manager. Perhaps I might have noticed her a little closely, since she was the only white woman I had enjoyed the opportunity of conversing with for some time. It was very certain, however, that she struck me as an uncommon person—tall, raw-boned, sharp, and masculine—with a wild and piercing expression of eye, and a smile singularly startling and unfeminine. I even fancied that her teeth were long and pointed, and that she resembled a picture of an ogress I had seen when a child. The man was a subdued and melancholy-looking person, presenting no particular trait of character in his appearance save that of general abandonment to the influence of misfortune. His dress and expression impressed me with the idea that he had experienced much trouble, without possessing that strong power of recuperation so common among American adventurers in California.

It would scarcely be worth while noticing these casual acquaintances of a night, since they have nothing to do with my narrative, but for the remarkable illustration they afford of the hardships that were encountered at that time on the emigrant routes to California. In the course of conversation with the man, I found that he and his wife were among the few survivors of a party whose terrible sufferings in the mountains during the past winter had been the theme of much comment in the newspapers. He did not state—what I already knew from the published narrative of their adventures—that the woman had subsisted for some time on the dead body of a child belonging to one of the party. It was said that the man had held out to the last, and refused to participate in this horrible feast of human flesh.

So strangely impressive was it to be brought in direct contact with a fellow-being, especially of the gentler sex, who had absolutely eaten of human flesh, that I could not but look upon this woman with a shudder. Her sufferings had been intense; that was evident from her marked and weather-beaten features. Doubtless she had struggled against the cravings of hunger as long as reason lasted. But still the one terrible act, whether the result of necessity or insanity, invested her with a repellant atmosphere of horror. Her very smile struck me as the gloating expression of a cannibal over human blood. In vain I struggled against this unchristian feeling. Was it right to judge a poor creature whose great misfortune was perhaps no offense against the laws of nature? She might be the tenderest and best of women—I knew nothing of her history. It was a pitiable case. But, after all, she had eaten of human flesh; there was no getting over that.

When I sat down to supper this woman was obliging enough to hand me a plate of meat. I was hungry, and tried to eat it. Every morsel seemed to stick in my throat. I could not feel quite sure that it was what it seemed to be. The odor even disgusted me. Nor could I partake of the bread she passed to me with any more relish. It was probably made by her hands—the same hands that had torn the flesh from a corpse and passed the reeking shreds to her mouth. The taint of an imaginary corruption was upon it.

The room allotted to me for the night was roughly furnished, as might reasonably be expected; but, apart from this, the bedding was filthy; and, in common with every thing about the house, the slatternly appearance of the furniture did not tend to remove the unpleasant impression I had formed of my hostess. Whether owing to the vermin, or an unfounded suspicion that she might become hungry during the night, I slept but little. The picture of the terrible ogress that I had seen when a child, and the story of the little children which she had devoured, assumed a fearful reality, and became strangely mingled in my dreams with this woman's face. I was glad when daylight afforded me an excuse to get up and take a stroll in the fresh air.

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CHAPTER II.

THE MIRAGE.

After an early breakfast, I mounted my mule and pursued my journey over the pass of the San Juan. The view from the summit was magnificent. Beyond a range of sand-hills toward the right stretched the great Pacific. Ridges of mountains, singularly varied in outline, swept down in front into the broad valley of the Salinas. The pine forests of Monterey and Santa Cruz were dimly perceptible in the distance; and to the left was a wilderness of rugged cliffs, as far as the eye could reach, weird and desolate as a Cape Horn sea suddenly petrified in the midst of a storm. Descending through a series of beautiful little valleys clothed in a golden drapery of wild oats, and charmingly diversified with groves of oak and sycamore, and rich shrubbery of ceonosa, hazel, and wild grape, I at length entered the great valley of the Salinas, nine miles from the Mission of San Juan. At that time innumerable herds of cattle covered the rich pastures of this magnificent valley; and although there are still many to be seen there, the number has been greatly reduced during the last ten years. A large portion of the country bordering on the Salinas River, as far south as the Mission of Soledad, has been cut up into small ranches and farms; and thriving settlements and extensive fields of grain are now to be seen where formerly ranged wild bands of cattle, mustang, and innumerable herds of antelope.

Pass of San Juan

PASS OF SAN JUAN.

Turning to the southward, and keeping in view the two great ranges of mountains which were the chief landmarks in former times, the scene that lay outspread before me resembled rather some wild region of enchantment than any thing that could be supposed to exist in a material world—so light and hazy were the distant mountains, so vaguely mingled the earth and sky, so rich and fanciful the atmospheric tints, and so visionary the groves that decorated the plain. Never before had I witnessed the mirage in the full perfection of its beauty. The whole scene was transformed into a series of magnificent optical illusions, surpassing the wildest dreams of romance. Points of woodland, sweeping from the base of the mountains far into the valley, were reflected in mystic lakes. Herds of cattle loomed up on the surface of the sleeping waters like miniature fleets of vessels with variegated sails. Mounds of yellow sand, rising a little above the level of the plain, had all the effect of rich Oriental cities, with gorgeous palaces of gold, mosques, and minarets, and wondrous temples glittering with jewels and precious stones. Bands of antelope coursed gracefully over the foreground; but so light and vaguely defined were their forms that they seemed rather to sail through the air than touch the earth. By the illusory process of the refraction, they appeared to sweep into the lakes and assume the forms of aerial boats, more fanciful and richly colored than the caÏques of Constantinople. Birds, too, of snowy plumage, skimmed over the silvery waste; and islands that lay sleeping in the glowing light were covered with myriads of water-fowl. A solitary vulture, sitting upon the carcass of some dead animal a few hundred yards off, loomed into the form of a fabulous monster of olden times, with a gory head, and a beak that opened as if to swallow all within his reach. These wonderful features in the scene were continually changing: the lakes disappeared with their islands and fleets, and new lakes, with still stranger and more fantastic illusions, merged into existence out of the rarefied atmosphere. Thus hour after hour was I beguiled on my way through this mystic region of enchantment.

Antelope in the Mirage

ANTELOPE IN THE MIRAGE.

Toward evening I reached the Salinas River, where I stopped to rest and water my mule. A Spanish vaquero, whom I found under the trees enjoying the siesta to which that race are addicted, informed me that it was "Dos leguos, poco mas o meno," to Soledad. As he lived there, he would show me the way. It was inhabited by the Sobranis family, and they owned sixteen square leagues of land and "muchos granada." This much I contrived to understand; but when I handed the vaquero a fine Principe cigar, and he took a few whiffs and became eloquent, I entirely lost the train of his observations. It is possible he may have been reciting a poem on pastoral life. At all events, we jogged along very sociably, and in something over an hour reached the mission.

Vulture in the Mirage

VULTURE IN THE MIRAGE.

A more desolate place than Soledad can not well be imagined. The old church is partially in ruins, and the adobe huts built for the Indians are roofless, and the walls tumbled about in shapeless piles. Not a tree or shrub is to be seen any where in the vicinity. The ground is bare, like an open road, save in front of the main building (formerly occupied by the priests), where the carcasses and bones of cattle are scattered about, presenting a disgusting spectacle. But this is a common sight on the Spanish ranches. Too lazy to carry the meat very far, the rancheros generally do their butchering in front of the door, and leave the Indians and buzzards to dispose of the offal.

Soledad

SOLEDAD.

A young Spaniard, one of the proprietors, was the only person at home, with the exception of a few dirty Indians who were lying about the door. He received me rather coldly, as I thought, and took no concern whatever about my mule. I learned afterward that this family had been greatly imposed upon by travelers passing northward to the mines, who killed their cattle, stole their corn, stopped of nights and went away without paying any thing. At first they freely entertained all who came along in the genuine style of Spanish hospitality; but, not content with the kind treatment bestowed upon them, their rough guests seldom left the premises without carrying away whatever they could lay hands upon. This naturally embittered them against strangers, and of course I had to bear my share of the ill feeling manifested toward the traveling public. It was not long, however, before I discovered a key to my young host's good graces. He was strumming on an old guitar when I arrived, and soon resumed his solitary amusement, not seeming disposed to respond to my feeble attempts at his native language, but rather enjoying the idea of drawing himself into the doleful sphere of his own music. As soon as a favorable opportunity occurred, I took the guitar, and struck up such a lively song of "The Frogs that tried to Come it, but couldn't get a Chance," that the cadaverous visage of my host gradually relaxed into a smile, then into a broad grin, and at the climax he absolutely laughed. It was all right. Music had soothed the savage breast. Sobranis was conquered. He immediately directed the vaquero to see to my animal, and set to work and got me an excellent supper of tortillas and frijoles, jerked beef and oja; after which he insisted upon learning the song of the Frog, which of course I was obliged to teach him. So passed the hours till late bedtime. Notwithstanding the fleas, which abounded in overwhelming numbers, I contrived to sleep soundly. Next morning, after a good breakfast of coffee, tortillas, jerked beef, etc., as before, I mounted my mule and proceeded on my journey, much to the regret of Sobranis, who positively refused to accept a cent for the accommodations he had afforded me.

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CHAPTER III.

A DEATH-STRUGGLE.

In the vicinity of the sea-shore, and as far inland as Soledad, the temperature was delightfully cool and bracing; but beyond the first turning-point of mountains to the southward a marked change was perceptible. Although the sun was not more than two hours high, the heat was intense. The rich black soil, which had been thoroughly saturated with the winter rains, was now baked nearly as hard as stone, and was cracked open in deep fissures, rendering the trail in some places quite difficult even for the practiced feet of the mule. Every thing like vegetation was parched to a crisp with the scorching rays of the sun. The bed of the river was quite dry, and no sign of moisture was visible for many miles. The rich fields of wild oats were no longer to be seen, but dried and cracking wastes of wild mustard, sage-weed, and bunch grass. In some places deserts of sand, without a particle of vegetation, and incrusted with saline deposits, stretched along the base of the mountains as far as the eye could reach. The glare on these plains of alkali (as they were commonly called) was absolutely blinding. Toward noon, so intense was the heat, I thought it impossible to endure it another hour. A dry, hot cloud of dust rose from the parched earth, and hung around me like the fiery breath of an oven. Neither tree nor shrub was to be seen any where along the wayside. As I toiled wearily along, scarcely able to get my mule out of a walk, I thought of Denham and Clapperton, the brothers Lander, Mungo Park, and all the great African explorers, and wondered how they could have endured for weeks and months what I found it so hard to bear for a few hours. There was no respite; nothing in the world to alleviate the burning heat; not even a stunted shrub to creep under. And yet, thought I, this is but a flash in the pan to the deserts of Africa. Not that the heat is more intense there; for I believe it is admitted that the thermometer rises higher in California than in any other part of the world. I have known it to be 130° Fahrenheit in the mines, and have been told that in the gulches of some of the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada it has been known to reach 150°. The official table published by Congress shows that the maximum heat at Fort Miller is 118°, while at Fort Yuma, on the Colorado, it does not exceed 110°. In the narrative of the voyages of Lord Anson, written by his chaplain, it is conceded that the heat is greater in California, owing to local causes, than at any known point between the tropics. But very different is it in Africa, or any tropical country, in this respect—that the climate of California is never oppressive, whatever may be the temperature. The nights are delightfully cool, and the mornings peculiarly fresh and bracing. Hence the suffering from heat is never protracted beyond a few hours. At all events, not to go into any farther dissertation upon climate, I found it quite warm enough on the present occasion, and would have been very glad to accept the loan of an umbrella had any body been at hand to offer it to me.

About an hour before sunset, as I was riding slowly along, enjoying the approaching shades of evening, I discovered for the first time that my mule was lame. I had traveled very leisurely on account of the heat, making not over thirty miles. The nearest water, as the young Spaniard, Sobranis, had informed me, was at a point yet distant about five miles. I saw that it was necessary to hurry, and began to spur my mule in the hope of being able to reach this camping place; but I soon perceived that the poor animal was not only lame, but badly foundered—at least it seemed so then, though my convictions on that point were somewhat shaken by what subsequently occurred. I had succeeded, after considerable spurring, in getting him into a lope, when he suddenly stumbled and threw me over his head. The shock of the fall stunned me for a few moments, but fortunately I was not hurt. I must have turned a complete somersault. As soon as consciousness returned I found that I was lying on my back in the middle of the road, the mule quietly grazing within ten feet. I got up a little bewildered, shook off some of the dust, and started to regain the bridle; but, to my great surprise, the mule put back his ears, kicked up his heels, and ran off at a rate of speed that I deemed a foundered animal entirely incapable of achieving. There was not the slightest symptom of lameness in his gait. He "loped" as freely as if he had just begun his journey. In vain I shouted and ran after him. Sometimes he seemed absolutely to enjoy my helpless condition, and would permit me to approach within two or three feet, but never to get hold of the bridle. Every attempt of that kind he resented by whirling suddenly and kicking at me with both heels, so that once or twice it was a miracle how I escaped. For the first time since morning, notwithstanding the heat of the clay, my skin became moist. A profuse sweat broke out all over me, and I was parched with a burning thirst. It was thirty miles from Soledad, the nearest inhabited place that I knew of, and even if I felt disposed to turn back it would have been at great risk and inconvenience. My blankets, coat, pistol, and papers—the whole of incalculable importance to me—were firmly strapped behind the saddle, and there was no way of getting at them without securing the mule. Upon reflection, it seemed best to follow him to the watering-place. He must be pretty thirsty after his hard day's journey in the sun, and would not be likely to pass that. I therefore walked on as fast as possible, keeping the mule as near in the trail as his stubborn nature would permit. It was not without difficulty, however, that I could discern the right trail, for it was frequently intersected by others, and occasionally became lost in patches of sand and sage-brush.

In this way, with considerable toil, I had advanced about two miles, when I discovered that a large band of Spanish cattle, which had been visible for some time in the distance, began to close in toward the line of my route, evidently with the intention of cutting me off. Their gestures were quite hostile enough to inspire a solitary and unarmed footman with uneasiness. A fierce-looking bull led the way, followed by a lowing regiment of stags, steers, and cows, crowding one upon the other in their furious charge. As they advanced, the leader occasionally stopped to tear up the earth and shake his horns; but the mass kept crowding on, their tails switching high in the air, and uttering the most fearful bellowing, while they tossed their horns and stared wildly, as if in mingled rage and astonishment. I had heard too much of the wild cattle of California, and their hostility toward men on foot at this season of the year, not to become at once sensible of my dangerous position.

The nearest tree was half a mile to the left, on the margin of a dry creek. There was a grove of small oaks winding for some distance along the banks of the creek; but between the spot where I stood and this place of security scattering bands of cattle were grazing. However, there was no time to hesitate upon a choice of difficulties. Two or three hundred wild cattle rushing furiously toward one in an open plain assist him in coming to a very rapid conclusion. I know of no position in which human strength is of so little avail—the tremendous aggregation of brute force opposed to one feeble pair of arms seems so utterly irresistible. I confess instinct lent me a helping hand in this emergency. Scarcely conscious of the act, I ran with all my might for the nearest tree. The thundering of heavy hoofs after me, and the furious bellowing that resounded over the plain, spread a contagion among the grazing herds on the way, and with one accord they joined in the chase. It is in no spirit of boastfulness that I assert the fact, but I certainly made that half mile in as few minutes as ever the same distance was made by mortal man. When I reached the tree I looked back. The advance body of the cattle were within a hundred yards, bearing down in a whirlwind of dust. I lost no time in making my retreat secure. As the enemy rushed in, tearing up the earth and glaring at me with their fierce, wild eyes, I had gained the fork of the tree, about six feet from the ground, and felt very thankful that I was beyond their reach. Still there was something fearful in being blockaded in such a place for the night. An intolerable thirst parched my throat. The effects of the exertion were scarcely perceptible at first, but as I regained my breath it seemed impossible to exist an hour longer without water. In this valley the climate is so intensely dry during the summer heats that the juices of the system are quickly absorbed, and the skin becomes like a sheet of parchment. My head felt as if compressed in a band of iron; my tongue was dry and swollen. I would have given all I possessed, or ever hoped to possess, for a single glass of water.

While in this position, with the prospect of a dreary night before me, and suffering the keenest physical anguish, a very singular circumstance occurred to relieve me of farther apprehension respecting the cattle, though it suggested a new danger for which I was equally unprepared. A fine young bull had descended the bed of the creek in search of a water-hole. While pushing his way through the bushes he was suddenly attacked by a grizzly bear. The struggle was terrific. I could see the tops of the bushes sway violently to and fro, and hear the heavy crash of drift-wood as the two powerful animals writhed in their fierce embrace. A cloud of dust rose from the spot. It was not distant over a hundred yards from the tree in which I had taken refuge. Scarcely two minutes elapsed before the bull broke through the bushes. His head was covered with blood, and great flakes of flesh hung from his fore shoulders; but, instead of manifesting signs of defeat, he seemed literally to glow with defiant rage. Instinct had taught him to seek an open space. A more splendid specimen of an animal I never saw; lithe and wiry, yet wonderfully massive about the shoulders, combining the rarest qualities of strength and symmetry. For a moment he stood glaring at the bushes, his head erect, his eyes flashing, his nostrils distended, and his whole form fixed and rigid. But scarcely had I time to glance at him when a huge bear, the largest and most formidable I ever saw in a wild state, broke through the opening.

A trial of brute force that baffles description now ensued. Badly as I had been treated by the cattle, my sympathies were greatly in favor of the bull, which seemed to me to be much the nobler animal of the two. He did not wait to meet the charge, but, lowering his head, boldly rushed upon his savage adversary. The grizzly was active and wary. He no sooner got within reach of the bull's horns than he seized them in his powerful grasp, keeping the head to the ground by main strength and the tremendous weight of his body, while he bit at the nose with his teeth, and raked stripes of flesh from the shoulders with his hind paws. The two animals must have been of very nearly equal weight. On the one side there was the advantage of superior agility and two sets of weapons—the teeth and claws; but on the other, greater powers of endurance and more inflexible courage. The position thus assumed was maintained for some time—the bull struggling desperately to free his head, while the blood streamed from his nostrils—the bear straining every muscle to drag him to the ground. No advantage seemed to be gained on either side. The result of the battle evidently depended on the merest accident.

A DUEL À LA MORT.

As if by mutual consent, each gradually ceased struggling, to regain breath, and as much as five minutes must have elapsed while they were locked in this motionless but terrible embrace. Suddenly the bull, by one desperate effort, wrenched his head from the grasp of his adversary, and retreated a few steps. The bear stood up to receive him. I now watched with breathless interest, for it was evident that each animal had staked his life upon the issue of the conflict. The cattle from the surrounding plains had crowded in, and stood moaning and bellowing around the combatants; but, as if withheld by terror, none seemed disposed to interfere. Rendered furious by his wounds, the bull now gathered up all his energies, and charged with such impetuous force and ferocity that the bear, despite the most terrific blows with his paws, rolled over in the dust, vainly struggling to defend himself. The lunges and thrusts of the former were perfectly furious. At length, by a sudden and well-directed motion of his head, he got one of his horns under the bear's belly, and gave it a rip that brought out a clotted mass of entrails. It was apparent that the battle must soon end. Both were grievously wounded, and neither could last much longer. The ground was torn up and covered with blood for some distance around, and the panting of the struggling animals became each moment heavier and quicker. Maimed and gory, they fought with the desperate certainty of death—the bear rolling over and over, vainly striking out to avoid the fatal horns of his adversary—the bull ripping, thrusting, and tearing with irresistible ferocity.

At length, as if determined to end the conflict, the bull drew back, lowered his head, and made one tremendous charge; but, blinded by the blood that trickled down his forehead, he missed his mark, and rolled headlong on the ground. In an instant the bear whirled and was upon him. Thoroughly invigorated by the prospect of a speedy victory, he tore the flesh in huge masses from the ribs of his prostrate foe. The two rolled over and over in the terrible death-struggle; nothing was now to be seen save a heaving, gory mass, dimly perceptible through the dust. A few minutes would certainly have terminated the bloody strife, so far as my favorite was concerned, when, to my astonishment, I saw the bear relax in his efforts, roll over from the body of his prostrate foe, and drag himself feebly a few yards from the spot. His entrails had burst entirely through the wound in his belly, and now lay in long strings over the ground. The next moment the bull was on his legs, erect and fierce as ever. Shaking the blood from his eyes, he looked around, and seeing the reeking mass before him, lowered his head for the final and most desperate charge. In the death-struggle that ensued both animals seemed animated by supernatural strength. The grizzly struck out wildly, but with such destructive energy that the bull, upon drawing back his head, presented a horrible and ghastly spectacle; his tongue, a mangled mass of shreds, hanging from his mouth, his eyes torn completely from their sockets, and his whole face stripped to the bone. On the other hand, the bear was ripped completely open, and writhing in his last agonies. Here it was that indomitable courage prevailed; for, blinded and maimed as he was, the bull, after a momentary pause to regain his wind, dashed wildly at his adversary again, determined to be victorious even in death. A terrific roar escaped from the dying grizzly. With a last frantic effort he sought to make his escape, scrambling over and over in the dust. But his strength was gone. A few more thrusts from the savage victor, and he lay stretched upon the sand, his muscles quivering convulsively, his huge body a resistless mass. A clutching motion of the claws—a groan—a gurgle of the throat, and he was dead.

The bull now raised his bloody crest, uttered a deep bellowing sound, shook his horns triumphantly, and slowly walked off, not, however, without turning every few steps to renew the struggle if necessary. But his last battle was fought. As the blood streamed from his wounds a death-chill came over him. He stood for some time, unyielding to the last, bracing himself up, his legs apart, his head gradually drooping; then dropped on his fore knees and lay down; soon his head rested upon the ground; his body became motionless; a groan, a few convulsive respirations, and he too, the noble victor, was dead.

During this strange and sanguinary struggle, the cattle, as I stated before, had gathered in around the combatants. The most daring, as if drawn toward the spot by the smell of blood or some irresistible fascination, formed a circle within twenty or thirty yards, and gazed at the murderous work that was going on with startled and terror-stricken eyes; but none dared to join in the defense of their champion. No sooner was the battle ended, and the victor and the vanquished stretched dead upon the ground, than a panic seized upon the excited multitude, and by one accord they set up a wild bellowing, switched their tails in the air, and started off at full speed for the plains.

CHAPTER IV.

THE OUTLAWS' CAMP.

It was now nearly dark. The impressive scene I had just witnessed, and in which I had become so absorbed as to lose all consciousness of danger, now forcibly reminded me that this was not a safe place of retreat for the night. I descended from the tree, seeing all clear, and hurried out toward the edge of the plain, where I discovered a trail leading down parallel with the creek. The water-hole I knew must be on this creek, for there was no other in sight. It could not be more than two or three miles distant, and there was yet sufficient light to enable me to keep within range of the bushes on the left. I walked on rapidly for nearly an hour, sometimes stumbling into the deep fissures which had been made in the ground by the heat of the sun, and often obliged to descend deep arroyas and seek for some time before I could find an outlet on the other side; but in the course of an hour I was rejoiced to see a point of woodland jutting into the plain, not over a few hundred yards distant, in the midst of which there was the glimmer of a fire.

I say rejoiced, for certainly that was the first sensation; but in approaching the light I could not but think of the savage character of the country, and the probability of meeting with company here as little to my liking as any I had yet encountered. This part of the Salinas was entirely out of the range of civilization; neither miners nor settlers had yet intruded upon these dreary solitudes; and the chances were greatly in favor of meeting a party of Sonoranian desperadoes or outlawed Californians. Yet what inducement could I present for robbery or murder in such a destitute plight? Without coat, blankets, pistol, or property of any kind except a watch concealed in the fob of my pantaloons—even without money; for what little I owned, not over forty or fifty dollars, was contained in a leather purse in the pocket of my coat—of what avail would it be to molest me? If plunder should be an object, they must already be in possession of all I had.

These considerations somewhat allayed my apprehensions; and, at all events, I saw no alternative but to keep on. As I descended from the plain into the oak grove bordering upon the bed of the creek, I observed that there were only two men in camp. From their costume—the common blue shirts, pantaloons, and rough boots of ordinary travelers on the way to the mines—I judged them to be Americans. Nor was I mistaken. The very first word I heard spoken was an oath, which it is unnecessary for me to repeat.

"I say, Griff," said one, in a coarse, brutal voice, "if he comes don't you budge. He'll be here certain."

"Jack," replied the man addressed, "you've done enough of that. You'd better hold up a while, that's my opinion."

The other laughed; not a joyous laugh of natural mirthfulness, but something resembling a chuckling sneer that was horribly repelling. An instinctive feeling prompted me to retrace my steps and strike out for the Mission of Soledad. Without well knowing why, I was impressed with an irresistible conviction that the spirit of sin brooded over this camp. Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I turned to retreat while yet undiscovered, when a man emerged from the bushes a little below, and called out sharply, "Who's that? Answer quick, or you're a dead man!"

I answered at once, "An American—a friend. Don't shoot! It's all right!"

I then advanced into the camp, where I was greeted with an uneasy and suspicious stare, very much unlike any reception I had ever met with before from a party of countrymen. There was either distrust or disappointment in their looks, probably both. The party consisted of three men, two of whom were standing by the fire cooking a piece of venison, while the third, who had hailed me from the bushes, seemed to have been on the look-out.

The man called "Jack"—he who had first spoken—was a swarthy, thick-set fellow, about thirty years of age, with a bull neck, a coarse black beard, and heavy sun-burned mustache. His eyes were overhung by bushy brows, and were of a cold, stony color and very deeply set, giving him an appearance of peeping out furtively from a chaparral of brush. A shock of black matted hair covered his head; his hands were begrimed with dirt, and his dress was ragged, greasy, and stained with blotches of filth and blood. On his feet he wore a pair of coarse heavy boots, out at the toes, in the legs of which his pantaloons were carelessly thrust, giving him a peculiarly slovenly and blackguard air. A belt around his waist, with a revolver and knife, and a leather pouch for balls and patching, completed his costume and trappings. I instinctively recoiled from this man. His whole expression—his voice, manner, dress, and all—pronounced him a coarse and unmitigated villain. There was not a single redeeming point about him that I could discover. Hard, crafty, and cruel, profane, filthy, and brutal, his character was patent at a glance. If he was not intrinsically bad, nature had grievously belied him.

The other, to whom this fellow had addressed his remarks when I first heard their voices, and who was called "Griff," was apparently somewhat younger, though rough and weather-beaten, as if he had been much exposed. His form was gaunt and athletic, and his height over six feet. There was something very sad in the expression of his face, which was well chiseled, and not destitute of a certain quality of rough, manly beauty. A prominent nose; firm and compressed lips; a square projecting chin, evincing firmness, and a liquid blue eye, with a mingled expression of gentleness and determination; deep furrows, tending downward from the corners of his mouth; long waving hair, and a light mustache, gave him something of a heroic cast of countenance, which, but for an appearance of general recklessness, would have redeemed him under all the disadvantages of ragged clothes and evil associations. Yet I felt at once interested in this man. He seemed embarrassed as I scanned his features, apparently struggling with some natural impulse of politeness, which prompted him to offer me a more kindly welcome than his comrades had bestowed upon me; but, if such an impulse moved him, it was speedily checked. He drew his hat over his brow, and resumed his occupation at the fire without saying a word. Still, even his silence was not unfriendly.

The third of this strange party was a lithe, wiry man, not over five feet eight in height, but compact and not ungracefully formed. He was apparently much older than either of the others. To look upon him once was to receive an impression of evil that could never be effaced. His countenance was the most repellent I had ever seen, far surpassing that of the man "Jack" in cool, crafty malignity. I could readily imagine that this was the leader in all that required subtlety, intellect, and skill. His forehead was high and narrow; his eyes closely set together, black, and of piercing brilliancy; his features sharp and mobile; but it was his mouth that more than all gave him the distinguishing expression of cruelty and cunning. A sardonic smile continually played upon his thin, bloodless lips. Every muscle seemed under perfect control. It might well be said of this man that

"He could smile, and smile, and be a villain still," for villainy lurked in every feature. Yet he was not deficient in a certain air of personal neatness to which the other two had no pretensions. His jet-black hair was closely cut, and his face quite destitute of beard, and of that peculiar leaden color which indicates a long career of dissipation. In his dress he was even slightly foppish; wore a green cassimere hunting-jacket, with brass buttons; a white shirt, a breast-pin, and a pair of check pantaloons. His fingers were adorned with rings, and a watch-guard hung from his neck. The hilt of a bowie-knife, ornamented with silver, protruded from under the breast of his vest, and a revolver hung from a belt around his waist. In his motions he was quick, supine, and noiseless. Something of the basilisk there was about this man—something brilliant and glossy, as if he shone with a peculiar light. I fancied I had seen gamblers like him in New Orleans, fierce yet wary men, accustomed to play at hazardous games; glossy outside and of fascinating suavity, but corrupt to the core. Even his green coat added to the illusion; it fitted him so neatly, and seemed so like the natural slimy skin of a poisonous reptile. It was evident this was no ordinary adventurer. His manner was that of a man of the world; he had seen much, and he knew much, mostly of evil I fancied, for all that was about him was essentially bad. A certain deference toward him was perceptible in the manner of the other two men, especially in that of the thick-set fellow called Jack, who lost much of his bravado air when "the Colonel" spoke, for such was the title accorded to the last-named of the party. The Colonel was pleased to scan me very closely for some moments before he opened his lips. When he spoke I was astonished at the change in his voice, which, when I first heard it, was sharp and hard. It was now wonderfully soft and silky.

"Sir," said he, blandly, "you seem to have lost your way. Have you walked far?"

"Not very," was my answer. "Only five miles. My mule threw me and ran away. I was unable to catch him, and thought probably he had made his way to this pool of water. Have you seen him?—a large brown mule, with a roll of blankets and a coat fastened to the saddle?"

The Colonel smiled pleasantly.

"I see, friend, you are not accustomed to traveling in this rough style. Your mule has doubtless gone back to his old quarters, wherever you got him. A mule never goes farther in a new direction than he can help."

"But I saw him start for this point. He was very thirsty, I know; and, besides, he came from the Colorado not over a month ago. His course would naturally be to the southward if he desired to return to his old quarters."

"Very likely," said the Colonel, quietly: "it may be the same mule I sold to a gentleman from Texas down there about that time."

"Yes—I bought him from a Texan. It must be the same," I answered, glad to find some clew, however remote, to the object of my search.

The Colonel smiled again, and expressed his regret that it was not the nature of that mule to go in the direction of the Colorado. The fare for mules in that region was rather dry; and the animal in question had a very keen appreciation of good fare. At all events, no such mule had been seen here—"unless, perhaps, you may have seen him," added the Colonel, turning to the thick-set man, and regarding him with a peculiar expression—the same basilisk eye that I had noticed before.

"I?" said Jack, laughing coarsely; "the last mule I saw was a small mustang horse that belongs to myself."

"Possibly you may have seen him?" suggested the Colonel, looking at the tall, gaunt man, Griff; and here I could not but notice the change in his expression. His brow unconsciously lowered, and there was something devilish in the cool malignity of his eye. Griff was silent. His frame seemed convulsed with some emotion of disgust or hatred. The Colonel, turning quickly to me, observed, with an affected suavity, "This man may possibly be able to tell you something about your mule."

At this the person referred to drew himself up into an erect position, and gave a look at the Colonel—a look of such mingled hatred, defiance, and contempt, that I expected to see the latter wilt before it or draw his revolver. But he did neither. And here I detected the secret of his power over the other two men—imperturbable self-possession. He merely elevated his brows superciliously as Griff sternly remarked,

"You know as much of the mule as I do! What do you ask me for? Be careful."

"Oh," said the Colonel, jocularly, "I thought you might have seen him while I was absent. You know I'm not in the habit of noticing these things."

Griff resumed his slouching attitude, stirring the fire moodily, while the Colonel requested me to be seated, and proceeded to do the honors of the repast. All that I have attempted to describe was perfectly quiet; not a loud word was spoken, and but for the peculiar expression of each face, involving some dark complicity of experience, it might have passed unnoticed. There was really nothing said that necessarily bore an evil import. Yet what was it that filled me with such an indefinable abhorrence of these men—of two of them, at least? That they were unprincipled adventurers, I knew; that they were depraved enough to be professed gamblers, highway robbers, or horse thieves, was reasonable to suppose from their appearance; but there was something more than that about them. The leader was no common gambler or horse-thief. He was too keen, too polished, too subtle for that. He might be a forger, a slave speculator, a dealer in blood-hounds, a gambler in fancy stocks; yet this was no country for the exercise of that sort of talent—at least that portion of it which he had chosen as a place of temporary abode. He might be on his way to the mines. I asked no questions. It was enough to feel the evil influence of the present—enough to know by intuition that the hands of this man were stained with some deadly sin.

Hungry as I was, I could not swallow the bread he gave me without a choking sensation of disgust. The act of eating with him implied a species of fellowship against which my very soul rebelled.

Of the swarthy man, Jack, I had a different impression. He was purely brutal. All his instincts were coarse, savage, and depraved. Whatever quickness or cunning he possessed was that of an animal. He was far inferior to the other in all the essential attributes of a successful villain. I looked upon him as upon a vicious brute.

For the tall fellow, Griff, I must confess I felt a strange sympathy. That he was not naturally depraved, no one who looked upon his fine features, and frank, manly bearing, could for a moment doubt. He might be dissipated, reckless, even criminal, but he surely was not all bad. There was something of conscience left in him yet—some human emotion of remorse. Otherwise, why was his expression so strangely sad? Why was it that there seemed to be no bond of sympathy between him and the others—beyond, perhaps, some complicity in crime, either accidental or the result of evil associations? A deadly fascination seemed to be spread over him by the leader, against which he struggled in vain. The slight outburst of passion which I had witnessed showed too plainly the powerful thraldom in which he was held. His defiant tone—the withering hatred of his eye—the impatient gesture of contempt, were but the momentary ebullitions of a proud spirit. No sentiment of personal fear could have found a place in that manly breast. The cause of his submission lay deeper than that. Something of self-accusation must have had a share in it, thus to paralyze his strength—something more inextricable than any web that mortal man could cast over him unaided by a sense of his own iniquity. I could not conjecture what crime he had committed. Whatever it was, I had a strong yearning to befriend him. Surely there was still hope for him; he could not be utterly lost without bearing in his features the impress of unmitigated evil.

As soon as supper was over, the Colonel lighted his pipe and seemed disposed to be sociable. It was impossible for me to get over the abhorrence I had for this man. Even his efforts to be agreeable had something sinister in them that increased my dislike. Still, I was in the power of these men, whether they chose to exercise it for good or for evil, and it behooved me to suppress any disrelish I might have for their company.

"You came from Soledad to-day, I think you said?" observed the Colonel.

"Yes; I stopped there last night."

"Did you meet any body on the road?" he asked, carelessly.

"Only two Spaniards from Santa Marguerita." The Colonel started.

"Any news from below?"

"None that I could understand. I don't speak the Spanish language."

"You heard nothing from San Miguel?"

"No."

"Which way are you bound, if I may take the liberty of asking?"

"To San Luis. I have business there connected with the revenue service. Unfortunately, my mule has disappeared with my blankets, coat, pistol, what little money I had, and my official papers, which are of no use to any body but myself. I fear the loss will subject me to great inconvenience."

"You are aware, I suppose," said the Colonel, with the same disagreeable smile I had before noticed, "that the road is considered a little dangerous for solitary travelers. Murders have been committed between this and San Miguel."

"Any lately?" I asked, assuming more composure than I felt.

"Why as for that," replied the Colonel, making an effort to be humorous, "it would be hard for me to keep the run of all I hear in this part of the country. Society is rather backward, and the newspapers do not keep us advised of the current events of the day."

Here there was a pause. I felt convinced that this man was capable of any deed, however dark and damning. Even while he spoke his fingers played with the butt of a revolver that hung from his belt. Something caught my eye as his hand moved—a small silver star near the lock of the pistol. This was not an ordinary mark. I at once knew the pistol to be mine. A friend had given it to me. The star was a fanciful device of his own, based upon the idea that its rays would guide the bullet to its destination. The Colonel detected my inquisitive glance, and smiled again in his peculiar way, but said nothing. If I had any doubt on the subject before, I now felt quite satisfied that he was not only a villain, but one who would not hesitate to take my life if it would serve his purpose. Whether his thoughts ran in that direction at present I could not determine. He possessed a wonderful power of inspiring dark impressions without uttering a word. The mere suspicion of such a design was at least unpleasant. At length he rose, having finished smoking his pipe, and with an air of indifference said,

"It must be getting late. Have you the time, sir?"

I pulled out my watch, scarcely conscious of the act, and remarked that it wanted a few minutes of nine.

"A nice-looking watch, that!" observed the Colonel. "It must be worth a hundred dollars."

"Yes, more than that," I answered; for I saw at once that any manifestation of suspicion would be the last thing to answer my purpose. "It cost $150 in New York. It is a genuine chronometer, and the casing is of solid gold."

The Colonel exchanged glances with the swarthy man, Jack, and proposed to go out and take a look at the horses. Before they had proceeded fifty yards they stopped and looked back. Griff had been sitting moodily before the fire during the conversation above related, and did not seem disposed to move at the summons of his leader, who now called sharply to him to come on. The same expression of defiant hatred that I had noticed before flashed from the man's eyes, and for a moment he seemed to struggle against the Colonel's malign influence. "Come!" said the latter, sharply, "what do you lag behind for? You know your duty!"

"Yes," muttered Griff, between his set teeth, "I know it! It is hardly necessary to remind me of it." He then rose and proceeded to join his comrades. As he passed by where I sat he hurriedly whispered, "Stay where you are. Don't attempt to escape yet. Depend upon me—I'll stand by you!"

CHAPTER V.

THE ESCAPE.

It may readily be conceived that my sensations were not the most pleasant during the absence of the three men in whose power I was so strangely and unexpectedly placed. That two of them were quite capable of murdering me, if they had not already made up their minds to do so, was beyond question. I looked around, and saw to my dismay that they scarcely took the trouble to conceal the robbery they had already perpetrated. My blankets lay under a tree not over fifteen steps from the fire, and my coat and saddle were carelessly thrown among the common camp equipments in the same place. What could one unarmed man do against three, or even two, fully armed desperadoes? My first impulse was to steal away, now that there was a chance—perhaps the only one I might have—and conceal myself in the bushes till morning, then endeavor to make my way along the bed of the creek to Soledad. Better trust to the grizzly bears than to such men as the Colonel and Jack. But it was more than probable they were thoroughly acquainted with every thicket and trail in the country, and would not be long in overtaking me on horseback. There was another serious consideration: I could not well afford to lose my mule, money, and papers. The latter were of incalculable value, and could not be replaced. I had no idea that they had been suffered to remain in my coat pocket. So adroit a speculator as the Colonel must have ascertained their contents and placed them beyond danger of recovery. Besides, the man Griff had warned me not to attempt an escape yet. Was he to be trusted? Surely I could not be deceived in him. What object could he have in warning me unless to provide for my safety?

These considerations were unanswerable. I determined to remain and abide the issue.

It is said that danger sharpens men's wits. I believe it; for while there was ample reason to suppose these men were deliberating upon my destruction, a scheme flashed upon my mind which I at once resolved to carry into effect. Up to this period I had given them a plain statement of my misfortune. They evidently regarded me as a very simple-minded and inexperienced traveler. Nothing could be easier than to improve upon that idea.

As soon as they returned and resumed their places around the fire, I made some casual inquiries of the Colonel about the route from San Miguel to San Luis Obispo, professing to be exceedingly anxious to reach the latter place within five or six days.

The Colonel was bland and obliging as usual, giving me, without reserve, full particulars in regard to the route.

"But what's your hurry?" said he, smiling in his accustomed manner; "why not stay with us a few days and make yourself comfortable? The weather is rather warm for so long a pedestrian tour—unless, indeed, something is to be made by it." This he said with a low chuckle and a significant glance at the fellow with the thick neck.

"That is precisely why I want to get on," I answered; "a great deal is to be made by it if I get there in time, and a great deal lost if I don't. A vessel laden with foreign goods has gone ashore on the beach below the Embarcadera. I have advices that most of the cargo is saved. The duties, according to a copy of the manifest forwarded to the Custom-house at San Francisco, amount to over ten thousand dollars. The supercargo writes that he can sell out on advantageous terms at San Luis, provided he can pay the duties there to some authorized officer of the government within the period named. I am on my way down to receive the money. If I can get back with it to San Francisco within ten or twelve days, it will be of considerable advantage to the government as well as to myself. Unfortunately, there is no water communication at present, or I might gain time by taking a vessel. However, I apprehend no difficulty in being able to hire a mule at San Miguel. As for the stories of robbery and murder on the road, I have no faith in them. At all events, I am not afraid to try the experiment."

This communication made an evident impression upon the minds of the Colonel and Jack, both of whom listened with intense interest. The man Griff looked a little puzzled, but a casual glance reassured him: he at once caught at my meaning. I could see that the Colonel was embarrassed as to what course to pursue in reference to the stolen property. He held down his head for some time, pretending to be occupied in clearing the stem of his pipe, but it was apparent that he was in considerable perplexity. Deep and guarded as he was, it was not difficult to conjecture what was passing in his mind. There was now a strong inducement for permitting me to proceed on my journey. The prospect of securing ten thousand dollars was worthy of some risk; yet, if he acknowledged the stealing of my mule and other property, it was not likely I would again place myself in his power. On the other hand, I had seen the pistol, and must have some suspicion of the true state of the case.

I have often observed that men deeply versed in villainy, while they possess a certain sort of sagacity, are deficient in the perception of character when it involves a more comprehensive knowledge of human nature than usually falls within the limits of their individual experience. They are quick to detect every species of vulgar trickery, but their capacity to cope with straightforward truth is limited. They suspect either too much or too little, and lose confidence in their own penetration. With men like themselves they understand how to deal—they know by intuition the governing motives; but simplicity and frankness are weapons to which they are not accustomed. A direct statement of facts, in which they can see no motive of prudence, sets them at fault. They can analyze well through a dark atmosphere, but, like night-birds, have very dim perceptive powers in daylight.

While the Colonel could discover no interested motive in my simple statement respecting the loss of a vessel on the coast (of which he had probably heard from other sources), and could see no reason why I should not be simple enough to come back with a large sum of money, since I had been simple enough to lose a valuable mule and exhibit a valuable watch, he nevertheless seemed unable to extricate himself from suspicion in reference to the pistol—the only article of my property which he had reason to suppose I had seen. He could easily have said that he had found it on the trail; but he was not skilled in degrees of innocence. He had deferred his explanation too long, and, judging by himself, could not imagine that any other person would credit so flimsy a statement. In this he was correct, but his one-sided sagacity led him into puzzling inconsistencies.

To lull all suspicion on this point was indispensable to the success of my plan. The apparent confidence which I had manifested in the good faith of the party tended greatly to prevent the leader from coming to a satisfactory conclusion. So at least it appeared to me, as I watched the uncertain movements of his hands and the changing expression of his countenance. He was evidently aware that I had seen the star on the handle of the pistol, yet my conduct indicated no suspicion. It was necessary that I should remove whatever doubt on the subject might be lurking in his mind. With this in view, I took occasion to renew the conversation relative to the route, stating that although I apprehended little danger, it was still an awkward position to be entirely without arms in a strange country.

"The loss of my pistol," said I, "is a serious inconvenience. It must have fallen from my belt when the mule threw me, and become covered with dust. I could go back and find the place, but that would occupy nearly half a day, and I can not afford to lose the time. The only particular value the pistol has is that it is a present from a friend who belonged to the Order of the Lone Star of Texas. The badge of the Association is marked upon the handle, as usual with arms belonging to the members."

"Yes," said the Colonel, after a pause, "I once belonged to that Order myself, and have a pistol similarly marked."

"Perhaps you would be willing to dispose of it?" I observed. "Not that I have any money, but I would cheerfully give my watch for a good pistol, which would be at least three times its value."

"My dear sir," said the Colonel, affecting an air of injured pride, "you certainly can not be aware that a member of the Lone Star never sells or barters his arms. Any thing else, but not his weapons of personal defense. Fortunately, however, I have a spare revolver, which is entirely at your service. As for your watch, I should be sorry to deprive you of so useful an article, and one which would be of no value to myself. Time is of little consequence to men who are accustomed to spend it as they please, and whose chief dependence is on the sun, moon, and stars."

I accepted the proffered gift, as may be supposed, without the slightest qualms of conscience in depriving the donor of so valuable a piece of property; and having expressed my thanks, noticed that, while pretending to search for the pistol among the camp equipments, he took care to cover up my blanket and coat.

The Colonel soon returned to the fire, and handed me a very handsome revolver, a belt, powder-flask, and small leather bag containing caps, balls, and other necessary appendages. It struck me as a little strange that, having apparently made up his mind to let me depart, he had not offered to lend me an animal to ride upon; but a moment's reflection satisfied me that there was good cause for this. There could be no doubt, from the character of the party, that the horses were stolen, and would be recognized on the road. Besides, he knew I could easily hire a horse or mule at San Miguel.

After this I observed that the Colonel took occasion to speak a few words to Jack, the import of which I could only conjecture had some reference to my papers. Jack answered aloud, "Yes, the grass is bad there. I'll go put my mustang in another place." He then walked away, and the Colonel busied himself in preparing our sleeping quarters for the night.

It was nearly eleven o'clock. In about fifteen minutes Jack returned, and we all lay down in different directions, within a short distance of the fire. A saddle-blanket, kindly furnished by my chief entertainer, enabled me to make quite a comfortable bed.

The night was mild and pleasant. A clear sky, spangled with stars, was visible through the tops of the trees, and never had I seen it look so beautifully serene. Could it be that guilt could slumber peacefully under that heavenly canopy? Surely the evil spirit must be strong in the hearts of men who, unconscious of the reproving purity of such a night, could thus forget their sins, and lie calmly sleeping upon the bosom of their mother earth. How deadened by a long career of crime must conscience be in the breast of him who, steeped in guilt, could thus, in the presence of his Maker,

Neither the Colonel nor the man Jack moved an inch after taking their places. I almost envied them their capacity to sleep, so gentle and profound was their oblivion to the world and all its cares. To me this refreshing luxury was denied. My fate seemed to hang upon a thread. I could not feel any confidence in these men. They might become suspicious at any moment, and murder me as I lay helpless before them. For over two hours I watched them; they never moved. The probable fact was, they had made up their minds not to molest me, in view of the large sum of money I expected to collect at San Luis. My course seemed clear enough. But here was the difficulty. I could do nothing without my papers. Nor was I content to lose my mule, saddle, and blankets, which I knew to be in their possession.

The tall man, Griff, was restless, and turned repeatedly, moaning in his sleep, "God have pity on me! Oh God, have pity on me!"

It was a sad sight to behold him. No mortal eye could fathom the sufferings that thus moved him. Truly,

At length—it must have been about an hour before day—he arose, looked cautiously around, and, seeing all quiet, beckoned to me, and stealthily left the camp. On his way out he gathered up my blanket, saddle, and coat in his arms, and looked back to see if I had taken the hint. I lost no time in slipping from my covering, and following his receding figure. It was a trying moment. I expected to see the other two men rise, and held my pistol ready for defense. In a few minutes we were beyond immediate danger of discovery.

"Now," said Griff—"now is your time. Here is your mule. Mount him and be off! They will undertake to pursue you as soon as they discover your absence; but I shall loose the riatas, and it will take them some time to catch the horses. You will find your papers on the trail as soon as you strike the plain. Get to San Miguel, and you are safe. They dare not go there; but don't stop on the way."

While he was talking Griff fixed my saddle and pack on the mule, and I mounted without loss of time. What could I do to reward this noble fellow? In the hurry of the moment I handed him my watch.

"Friend," said I, "you have done me an inestimable service. Take this trifle as a keepsake, and with it my best thanks. You and I may never meet again."

"No, it is not likely we shall," said Griff, sadly. "Our ways are different. Keep your watch; I can't accept it. All I ask of you is not to judge me harshly. Good-by!"

The impulse to serve this unfortunate man was irresistible. I could not leave him thus. It was no idle curiosity that prompted me to probe the mystery of his conduct.

"In heaven's name, friend, why do you stay with these bad men? What unholy power have they over you? Leave them, I implore you—leave them at once and forever. Come with me. I will do all I can for you. Surely you are not too far gone in crime for repentance. The vilest sinner may be saved!"

The poor fellow's frame was convulsed with agony. He sobbed like a child, and for a moment seemed unable to speak. Suddenly, as if recollecting himself, he said,

"No, sir, I can not turn traitor. It is no use—I am gone beyond redemption. Their fate must be mine. God pity me! I struggled hard against the evil spirit, but he has conquered. I am gone, sir—gone! Yet, believe me, I am not wholly depraved—a criminal in the eyes of the law; a robber; an outcast from society and civilization; but (here he lowered his voice to a whisper)—but not a murderer. Oh God, pity me! My mother—my poor old mother!"

This was all. The next moment he turned away, and was lost in the gloom of the trees.

CHAPTER VI.

A LONELY RIDE.

As I struck into the trail and out into the broad valley of the Salinas a sense of freedom relieved me in some degree of the gloom inspired by the last words of this strangely unfortunate man. The stars were shining brightly overhead, but the moon had gone down some time previously. It was just light enough to see the way. A small white object lying in the trail caused the mule to start. In the excitement of my escape I had forgotten about the papers. Here they were, all safe. I had no doubt they had been thus disposed of by the ruffian Jack during the previous evening when he took occasion to absent himself from the camp. I quickly dismounted and placed the package securely in the leg of one of my boots, then pushed on with all speed to reach a turning-point of the mountains some distance ahead, in order to be out of sight by the dawn of day, which could not be far off. In about an hour I had gained this point, and at the same time the first faint streaks of the coming day began to appear in the eastern sky. The air was peculiarly balmy—cool enough to be pleasant, and deliciously odorous with the herbage of the mountains. Already the deer began to leave their coverts among the shrubbery on the hill-sides, and numerous bands of them stood gazing at me as I passed, their antlers erect, their beautiful forms motionless, as if hewn from the solid rock, but manifesting more curiosity than fear. Thousands of rabbits frisked about in the open glades, and innumerable flocks of quail flitted from bush to bush. The field-larks and doves made the air musical with their joyous hymns of praise to the rising sun; the busy hum of bees rose among the wild flowers by the wayside; all nature seemed to awake from its repose smiling with a celestial joy. In no other country upon earth have I seen such mornings as in the interior of California—so clear, bright, and sparkling—so rich and glowing in atmospheric tints—so teeming with unbounded opulence in all that gives vigor, health, and beauty to animated nature, and inspiration to the higher faculties of man. There is a redundancy of richness in the earth, air, and light unknown even in that land of fascination which is said to possess "the fatal gift of beauty."

Contrasted with the dark spirit of crime that hung over my late encampment, such a morning was inexpressibly lovely. Every breath of air—every sound that broke upon the listening ear—every thought of the vast wild plains and towering mountains that swept around me in the immeasurable distance, inspired vague and unutterable sensations of pleasure and pain—pleasure that I was free and capable of enjoying such exquisite physical and mental luxuries; pain that here, on God's own footstool,

"All but the spirit of man was divine."

As the sun rose, and spread over mountain and valley a drapery of glowing light, giving promise of continued life to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field, I could not but think with sadness how man—made after God's own image, the most perfect of his works, gifted with reason and intelligence—should so strangely turn aside from the teachings of his Maker, and cast away the pure enjoyments so bountifully spread before him. Was it possible that a single created being, however steeped in crime, could be insensible to the soothing and humanizing influences of such a scene?

The unhappy fate of the poor fellow to whom I was so deeply indebted haunted me. He, at least, must have felt the better promptings of his inner nature amid these beautiful works of a beneficent Creator. Surely such a man could never be utterly lost. There were noble traits in his character that must, some time or other, assert their supremacy. Honorable even in his degradation, he scorned to turn traitor to men whom he despised. His was not a nature formed for cruel and crafty deeds. Frank, manly, and ingenuous in his whole bearing, there was evidence of innate nobility in his misguided sense of honor, and a manifest scorn of deception in his wild outbursts of passion. What could have driven him to this career of crime? What satanic power was that by which he was enthralled? I could not believe that he was voluntarily bad. That single outburst of emotion as he spoke of his mother would have redeemed him had he been the worst of criminals. A career of dissipation must have brought him to this. He was evidently compromised, but to what extent? Some painful mystery hung over his connection with these bad men—I could not fathom it. The more I reflected upon all I had seen and heard, the more profound became my sympathy; nor is it an affectation of generosity to say that I would have sacrificed much to have saved him. Yet this man's case was not an uncommon one in California. There were many there, even at that early period, and there are still many, who, with the noblest attributes that adorn human nature, have become castaways.

As the day advanced a marked change became perceptible in the character of the country. Passing out from the valley of the Salinas to the right, the trail entered a series of smaller valleys, winding from one to another through a succession of narrow caÑons between low, gravelly hills, destitute of shrubbery, and of a peculiarly whitish and barren aspect. The scene was no longer enlivened by bands of deer and smaller game, such as I had seen in the morning; the birds had also disappeared; not a living thing was in sight save a few buzzards hovering in the air over the bleached and sterile hills, and occasionally a coyote or wild-cat skulking stealthily across the trail. Toward noon the earth became like a fiery furnace. The air was scorching. In the narrow passages, where the hills converged into a focus, cutting off every current of air, the refraction of the sun's rays was absolutely terrific. It seemed as if my very clothing must crisp into tinder and drop from my body. The skin peeled from my face and hands; a thick woolen hat was insufficient to keep the fierce and seething heat from my head, and I sometimes feared I would be smitten to the earth. Not knowing the water-holes, or rather having no time to look for them, I was parched with an intolerable thirst. On every eminence I turned to look back, but nothing was in sight save the dreary waste of barren hills that lay behind.

Toward evening, having stopped only a few minutes at a pool of water, my mule began to lag again. I had no spurs, and it was utterly in vain that I urged him on by kicks and blows. His greatest speed was a slow trot, and to keep that up for a few hundred yards at a time required my utmost efforts. By sundown I estimated that the distance to San Miguel must be twelve or fifteen miles. It was a very unpleasant position to be in—pursued, as I had every reason to suppose, by men who would not hesitate to take my life, yet unable to accelerate the speed of my animal. All I could do was to continue beating him.

The country became still more lonesome and desolate as I advanced. The chances of being overtaken momentarily increased. My anxiety to reach San Miguel caused me to forget all the sufferings of fatigue and thirst, and strain every nerve to get my mule over the ground. But the greater the effort the slower he traveled. It was true, I had a pistol, and could make some defense. Yet the chances were greatly against me. Unskilled in this sort of warfare, an indifferent rider, unacquainted with the trails by which I might be cut off and surprised, it seemed indeed a very hopeless case, should such an emergency arise. Besides, it would be very little satisfaction to shoot one, or even two men, against whom I felt no enmity, and whose lives were worth nothing to me, and still less to get killed myself. The truth is, I had a particular relish for life; others were interested in it as well as myself, and I did not feel disposed to risk it unnecessarily.

The sun went down at last, and the soft shadows of night began to soften the asperities of the scene. I rode on, never once relaxing my efforts to get a little more speed out of my mule. The moon rose, and innumerable stars twinkled in the sky. The air became delightfully balmy. Long shadows of rocks and trees swept across the trail. Mystic forms seemed to flit through the dim distance, or stand like ghostly sentinels along the wayside. Often I fancied I could see men on horseback stationed under the overhanging rocks, and detect the glitter of their arms in the moonlight. Stumps of trees riven by the storms of winter loomed up among the rocks like grim spectres; the very bushes assumed fantastic forms, and waved their long arms in gestures of warning. The howling of innumerable coyotes and the hooting of the night-owls had a singularly weird effect in the stillness of the night.

CHAPTER VII.

THE ATTACK.

It must have been nearly ten o'clock when my mule suddenly stopped, turned around, and set up that peculiar nickering bray by which these animals hail the approach of strangers. As soon as he ceased his unwelcome noise I listened, and distinctly heard the clatter of hoofs in the road, about half a mile in the rear. That my pursuers were rapidly approaching there was now very little doubt. It was useless to attempt to reach San Miguel, which must be still four or five miles distant. I had no time, and resolved at once to make for a little grove some three or four hundred yards to the right. As I approached the nearest trees I was rejoiced to see something like a fence. A little farther on was a gray object with a distinct outline. It must be a house. There was no light; but I soon discovered that I was within fifty yards of a small adobe building. My mule now pricked up his ears, snuffed the air wildly, and absolutely refused to move a step nearer. I dismounted, and tried to drag him toward the door. His terror seemed unconquerable. With starting eyes, and a wild blowing sound from his nostrils, he broke away and dashed out into the plain. I speedily lost sight of him.

This time I had taken the precaution to secure my papers and pistol on my person. The mule had taken the direction of San Miguel; but, even should I be unable to recover him, the loss would not be so great as before. However, it was no time to calculate losses. The clatter of hoofs grew nearer and nearer, and soon the advancing forms of two mounted men became distinctly visible in the moonlight. There was no alternative but to seek security in the old adobe. I ran for the door and pushed it open. The house was evidently untenanted. No answer was made to my summons save a mocking echo from the bare walls. My pursuers must have caught sight of me as they approached. I could hear their imprecations as they tried to force their animals up to the door. One of the party—the Colonel, whose voice I had no difficulty in recognizing, said,

"Blast the fellow! what did he come here for?"

The other answered with an oath and a brutal laugh,

"We've got him holed, any how. It won't take long to root him out."

They then dismounted and proceeded to tie their horses to the nearest tree. I could hear them talk as they receded, but could not make out what they said.

While this was going on I had closed the door, and was looking for some bolt or fastening, when I heard the low, fierce growl of some animal. There was no time to conjecture what it was; the next moment a furry skin brushed past, and the animal sprang through an opening in the wall.

A wooden bar was all I could find; but the iron fastening had been broken, and the only way of securing the door was to brace the bar against it in a diagonal position. The floor was of rough hard clay, and served in some sort to prevent the brace from slipping. A few moments of painful anxiety passed. I had drawn my revolver, and stood close against the inner wall, prepared to fire upon the first man that entered. Presently the two men returned, approaching stealthily along the wall, so as to avoid coming in range of the door. The sharp, hard voice of the Colonel first broke the silence.

"Come," said he, "open the door! You can't help yourself now! It is all up with you, my fine fellow!"

I knew the villains wanted to find my position, and made no answer.

"You may as well come out at once," said the Colonel; "you have no chance. There is nobody here to stand by you as there was last night. Your friend is keeping camp with a bullet through his head and a gash in his throat."

Pressed as I was, this news shocked me beyond measure. The unfortunate man who had befriended me had paid the penalty of his life for his kindness.

"Out with you!" roared the Colonel, fiercely, "or we'll burst the door down. Come, be quick!"

THE ATTACK.