CHAPTER XXVI.

ALEXANDER SELKIRK AND ROBINSON CRUSOE.

It is stated in Howel's life of Selkirk that the singular history of

this man (Alexander Selkirk) was soon made known to the public, and

immediately after his arrival in London he became an object of

curiosity, not only to the people at large, but to those elevated by

rank and learning. Sir Richard Steele, some time after, devoted to him

an article in the paper entitled "The Englishman," in which he tells the

reader that, as Selkirk is a man of good sense, it is a matter of great

curiosity to hear him give an account of the different revolutions of

his mind during the term of his solitude. "When I first saw him,"

continues this writer, "I thought, if I had not been let into his

character and story, I could have discovered that he had been much

separated from company, _from his aspect and gesture_; there was a

strong but cheerful seriousness in his look, and a certain disregard of

the ordinary things around him, as if he had been sunk in thought. In

the course of a few months," as it appears by the same writer, "familiar

converse with the town had _taken off the loneliness of his aspect, and

quite altered the expression of his face_."

"De Foe's romance of Robinson Crusoe was not published till the year

1719, when the original facts on which it was founded must have been

nearly forgotten. There is no record of any interview having taken place

between Selkirk and De Foe, so that it can not be decided whether De

Foe learned our hero's story from his own mouth, or from such narratives

as those published by Steele and others."

On this point a biographer of De Foe remarks: "Astonishing as was the

success of De Foe's romance, it did not deter the curious from

attempting to disparage it. The materials, it was said, were either

furnished by or surreptitiously obtained from Alexander Selkirk, a

mariner who had resided for four years on the desert island of Juan

Fernandez, and returned to England in 1711. Very probably his story,

which then excited considerable interest and attention, did suggest to

De Foe the idea of writing his romance; but all the details and

incidents are entirely his own. Most certainly De Foe had obtained no

papers or written documents from Selkirk, as the latter had none to

communicate."

Robinson Crusoe, however, can not be considered altogether a work of

fiction. Without adhering strictly to the actual adventures of Selkirk,

or of the Musquito Indian who preceded him, it gives, in the

descriptions of scenery, the mode of providing food, the rude expedients

resorted to for shelter against the weather, and all the trials and

consolations of solitude, a faithfully-drawn picture from these

narratives, and a most truthful and charming delineation of solitary

life, with such reflections as the subject naturally suggested. De Foe

was the great medium through which the spirit of the whole was fused; it

required the splendor of his genius to preserve from oblivion the

lessons therein taught--of the advantages of temperance, fortitude, and,

above all, an implicit reliance in the wisdom and mercy of the Creator.

He presents them in a most fascinating garb, with all the originality of

a master-mind; and it detracts nothing from his credit to say that the

pictures are drawn strictly from nature.

As Captain Rodgers well observes in his simple narrative of the

adventures of Selkirk, "One may see by this that solitude and retirement

from the world is not such an insufferable state of life as most men

imagine, especially when people are fairly called or thrown into it

unavoidably, as this man was; who, in all probability, must otherwise

have perished in the seas, the ship which left him being cast away not

long after, and few of the company escaped. We may perceive by this

story that necessity is the mother of invention, since he found means to

supply his wants in a very natural manner, so as to maintain his life,

though not so conveniently, yet as effectually as we are able to do with

all our arts and society. It may likewise instruct us how much a plain

and temperate way of living conduces to the health of the body and the

vigor of the mind, both of which we are apt to destroy by excess and

plenty, especially of strong liquor, and the variety as well as the

nature of our meat and drink; for this man, when he came to our ordinary

method of diet and life, though he was sober enough, lost much of his

strength and agility."

De Foe does not, as may be seen by reference to the fourth section of

"Robinson Crusoe," lay the scene of his narrative in Juan Fernandez.

Robinson starts from the Brazils, where he has been living as a planter,

on a voyage to the coast of Guinea. Driven to the northward along the

coast of South America by heavy gales, the captain of the vessel found

himself "upon the coast of Guinea, or the north part of Brazil, beyond

the River Amazon, toward that of the River Oronoco, commonly called the

Great River; and began to consult with me," says Robinson, "what course

he should take, for the ship was leaky and very much disabled, and he

was for going directly back to the coast of Brazil. I was positively

against that; and looking over the charts of the sea-coast of America

with him, we concluded there was no inhabited country for us to have

recourse to till we came within the circle of the Caribbee Islands, and

therefore resolved to stand away for Barbadoes; which, by keeping off to

sea, to avoid the indraught of the Bay or Gulf of Mexico, we might

easily perform, as we hoped, in about fifteen days' sail; whereas we

could not possibly make our voyage to the coast of Africa without some

assistance both to our ship and ourselves.

"With this design we changed our course, and steered away N.W. by W. in

order to reach some of our English islands, where I hoped for relief;

but our voyage was otherwise determined; for, being in the latitude of

12 deg. 18', a second storm came upon us, which carried us away with the

same impetuosity westward, and drove us so out of the very way of all

human commerce, that, had our lives been saved as to the sea, we were

rather in danger of being devoured by savages than ever returning to our

own country.

"In this distress, the wind still blowing very hard, one of our men

early in the morning cried out Land! and we had no sooner run out of the

cabin to look out, in hopes of seeing whereabouts in the world we were,

but the ship struck upon a sand, and in a moment her motion being so

stopped, the sea broke over her in such a manner that we expected we

should all have perished immediately; and we were immediately driven

into our close quarters to shelter us from the very foam and spray of

the sea."

It will be seen from the above that Robinson Crusoe was not wrecked on

the island of Juan Fernandez. In all probability he never saw that

island. I regret the fact as much as any body can regret it, because I

always thought so till I referred more particularly to his history; but

a due regard for truth compels me to give the facts as I find them.

"The History of Robinson Crusoe," says the biographer of De Foe, already

quoted, "was first published in the year 1719, and its popularity may be

said to have been established immediately, since four editions were

called for in about as many months, a circumstance at that time almost

unprecedented in the annals of literature. It rarely happens that an

author's expectations are surpassed by the success of his work, however

astonishing it may seem to others; yet perhaps even De Foe himself did

not venture to look forward to such a welcome on the part of the public,

after the repulses he had experienced on the part of the booksellers;

for, incredible as it now appears, the manuscript of the work had been

offered to, and rejected by, every one in the trade.

"The author of Robinson Crusoe would be entitled to a prominent place in

the history of our literature even had he never given to the world that

truly admirable production; and yet we may reasonably question whether

the name of De Foe would not long ago have sunk into oblivion, or at

least have been known, like those of most of his contemporaries, only to

the curious student, were it not attached to a work whose popularity has

been rarely equaled--never, perhaps, excelled. Even as it is, the

reputation due to the writer has been nearly altogether absorbed in that

of his hero, and in the all-engrossing interest of his adventures:

thousands who have read Robinson Crusoe with delight, and derived from

it a satisfaction in no wise diminished by repeated perusal, have never

bestowed a thought on its author, or, indeed, regarded it in the light

of a literary performance. While its fascination has been universally

felt, the genius that conceived it, the talent that perfected it, have

been generally overlooked, merely because it is so full of nature and

reality as to exhibit no invention or exertion on the part of the

author, inasmuch as he appears simply to have recorded what actually

happened, and consequently only to have committed to paper plain matter

of fact, without study or embellishment. We wonder at and are struck

with admiration by the powers of Shakspeare or Cervantes; with regard to

De Foe we experience no similar feeling: it is not the skill of the

artist that enchants us, but the perfect naturalness of the picture,

which is such that we mistake it for a mirror; so that every reader

persuades himself that he could write as well, perhaps better, were he

but furnished with the materials for an equally interesting narrative."

A DANGEROUS JOURNEY.

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.

[Illustration: 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.

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.

[Illustration: 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 caiques

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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

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 deg.

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 deg.

The official table published by Congress shows that the maximum heat at

Fort Miller is 118 deg., while at Fort Yuma, on the Colorado, it does not

exceed 110 deg. 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.

[Illustration: A DUEL A 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.

[Illustration: THE CAMP.]

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.

[Illustration: "JACK."]

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,

"O'erlabored with his being's strife,

Sink to that sweet forgetfulness of life!"

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,

"The mind that broods o'er guilty woes

Is like a scorpion girt by fire."

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."

[Illustration: A LONELY RIDE.]

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 canyons 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!"

[Illustration: THE ATTACK.]

Another pause. I heard a low whispering, and stood with breathless

anxiety with my finger upon the trigger of my pistol. In that brief

period it was wonderful how many thoughts flashed through my mind. I

knew nothing of the construction of the house; had no time even to look

around and see if there was any back entrance. A faint light through one

small window-hole in front, within three feet of the door, was all I

could discern. Every nerve was strained to its utmost tension. My sense

of hearing was painfully acute. The low whispering of the two ruffians,

the faint jingling of their spurs, the very creaking of their boots, as

they stealthily moved, was fearfully audible. With an almost absolute

certainty of death, without the remotest hope of relief, it was strange

how my thoughts wandered back upon the past; how the peaceful fireside

of home was pictured to my mind; how vividly I saw the beloved faces of

kindred and friends; how all that were dear to me seemed to sympathize

in my unhappy fate. Yet it was impossible to realize that my time had

come. The whole thing--the camp, the dark, murderous faces, the chase,

the blockade--resembled rather some horrible fantasy than the dread

truth. Strange, too, that I should have noticed something even grotesque

in my situation; run into a hole, as the ruffian Jack had said, like a

coyote or a badger. Five minutes--it seemed a long time--must have

passed in this way, when I became conscious of a gradual darkening in

the room. A low, heavy breathing attracted my attention. I looked in the

direction of the window, and thought I could detect something moving;

but the darkness was so impenetrable that it might be the result of

imagination. Should I fire and miss my mark, the flash would reveal my

position and be certain destruction. The dark mass again moved. I could

distinctly hear the respiration. It must be one of the men trying to get

in through the small window-hole. I raised my pistol, took dead aim as

near as possible upon the centre of the object, and fired. The fall of a

heavy body outside, a groan, an imprecation, was all I could hear, when

a tremendous effort was made to force the door, and two shots were fired

through it in quick succession. The wood was massive, but much decayed;

and I saw that it was rapidly giving way before the furious assaults

that were made upon it from the outside, evidently with a heavy piece of

timber. Another lunge or two of this powerful battering-ram must have

borne it from its hinges or shattered it to fragments.

"Hold on, Jack!" said the wounded man in a low voice; "come here, quick!

The infernal fool has shot me through the shoulder! I'm bleeding badly."

The ruffian dropped his bar, as I judged by the sound, and turned to

drag his leader out of range of the door. Now was the time for a bold

move. Hitherto I had acted on the defensive; but every thing depended on

following up the advantage. Removing the brace from the door, I made an

opening sufficient to get a glimpse of the two men. The stout fellow,

Jack, was stooping down, dragging the other toward the corner of the

house. I fired again. The ball was too low; it missed his body, but must

have shattered his wrist; for, with a horrible oath, he dropped his

burden, and staggered back a few paces writhing with pain, his hand

covered with blood. Before I could get another shot he darted behind the

house. At the same time the Colonel rose on his knee, turned quickly,

and fired. The ball whizzed by my head and struck the door. While I was

trying to get a shot at him in return, he jumped to his feet and

staggered out of range. I thought it best now to rest satisfied with my

success so far, and again retired to my position behind the door.

For the next ten or fifteen minutes I could hear, from time to time, the

smothered imprecations of the wounded ruffians, but after this there was

a dead silence. I heard nothing more. They had either gone or were lying

in wait near by, supposing I would come out. This uncertainty caused me

considerable anxiety, for I dared not abandon my gloomy retreat. Two or

three hours must have passed in this way, during which I was constantly

on the guard; but not the slightest indication of the presence of the

enemy was perceptible.

Two nights had nearly passed, during which I had not closed my eyes in

sleep. The perpetual strain of mind and the fatigue of travel were

beginning to tell. I felt faint and drowsy. During the whole terrible

ordeal of this night I had not dared to sit down. But now my legs

refused to support me any longer. I groped my way toward a corner of the

room to lie down. Some soft mass on the ground caused me to stumble. I

threw out my hands and fell. What was it that sent such a thrill of

horror through every fibre? A dead body lay in my embrace--cold,

mutilated, and clotted with blood!

It has been my fortune, during a long career of travel in foreign lands,

to see death in many forms. I do not profess to be exempt from the

weakness common to most men--a natural dread of that undiscovered region

toward which we are all traveling. But I never had any peculiar

repugnance to the presence of dead men. What are they, after all, but

inanimate clay? The living are to be feared--not the dead, who sleep the

sleep that knows no waking. Not this--not the sudden contact with a

corpse; not simply the cold and blood-clotted face over which I passed

my hand was it that caused me to recoil with such a thrill of horror. It

was the solution of a dread mystery. There, in a pool of clotted gore,

lay the corpse of a murdered man. No need was there to conjecture who

were his murderers.

I rose up, thoroughly aroused from my drowsiness. It was probable others

had shared the fate of this man. If so, their bodies must be near at

hand. I was afraid to open the door to let in the light, for, bad as it

was to be shut up in a dark room with the victim or victims of a cruel

murder, it was worse to incur the risk of a similar fate by exposing

myself. After somewhat recovering my composure I groped about, and soon

discovered that three other bodies were lying in the room: one on a

bed--a woman with her throat cut from ear to ear--and two smaller bodies

on the floor near by--children perhaps eight or ten years old, but so

mutilated that it was difficult to tell what they were. Their limbs were

almost denuded of flesh, and their faces and bodies were torn into

shapeless masses. This must have been the finishing work of the

animal--a coyote no doubt--that had startled me with a growl, and broken

through the window after I had first closed the door. I could also now

account for the strange manner in which the mule had snuffed the air,

and his unconquerable terror in approaching the house.

Only a few articles of furniture were in the room--a bed, two or three

broken stools, a frying-pan, coffee-pot, and a few other cooking

utensils, thrown in a heap near the fireplace. There was no other room;

nor was there any back entrance, as I had at first apprehended.

It was a gloomy place enough to spend a night in, but there was no help

for it. I certainly had less fear of the dead than of the living. It

could not be over two or three hours till morning; and it was not likely

the two men, who were seeking my life, would lurk about the premises

much longer, if they had not long since taken their departure, which

seemed the most probable.

I knelt down and commended my soul to God; then stretched myself across

the brace against the door, and, despite the presence of death, fell

fast asleep. It was broad daylight when I awoke. The sun's earliest rays

were pouring into the room through the little window and the cracks of

the door. A ghastly spectacle was revealed--a ghastly array of

room-mates lying stiff and stark before me.

From the general appearance of the dead bodies I judged them to be an

emigrant family from some of the Western States. They had probably taken

up a temporary residence in the old adobe hut after crossing the plains

by the southern route, and must have had money or property of some kind

to have inspired the cupidity of their murderers. The man was apparently

fifty years of age; his skull was split completely open, and his brains

scattered out upon the earthen floor. The woman was doubtless his wife.

Her clothes were torn partly from her body, and her head was cut nearly

off from her shoulders; besides which, her skull was fractured with

some dull instrument, and several ghastly wounds disfigured her person.

The bedclothes were saturated with blood, now clotted by the parching

heat. The two children had evidently been cut down by the blows of an

axe. Their heads were literally shattered to fragments. What the

murderers had failed to accomplish in mutilating the bodies had been

completed by some ravenous beast of prey--the same, no doubt, already

mentioned.

I saw no occasion to prolong my stay. It was hardly probable the Colonel

and Jack, wounded as they were, would renew their attack. They must have

made their way back to camp, or at least retired to some part of the

country where they would incur less risk of capture.

CHAPTER VIII.

SAN MIGUEL.

It was a bright and beautiful morning as I left the house and turned

toward San Miguel. The contrast between the peaceful scene before me and

the horrible sight I had just witnessed was exceedingly impressive. The

mellow light of the early sun on the mountains; the winding streams

fringed with shrubbery; the rich, golden hue of the valley; the cattle

grazing quietly in the low meadows bordering on the Salinas River; the

singing of the birds in the oak groves, were indescribably refreshing to

a fevered mind, and filled my heart with thankfulness that I was spared

to enjoy them once more. Yet I could not but think of what I had

witnessed in the adobe hut--a whole family cut down by the ruthless

hands of murderers who might still be lurking behind the bushes on the

wayside. Their dreadful crime haunted the scene, and its exquisite

repose seemed almost a cruel mockery. De Quincey somewhere remarks that

he never experienced such profound sensations of sadness as on a bright

summer day, when the very luxuriance and maturity of outer life, and

the fullness of sunshine that filled the visible world, made the

desolation and the darkness within the more oppressive. I could now well

understand the feeling; and though grief had but little part in it,

beyond a natural regret for the unhappy fate of the murdered family,

still it was sad to feel the contrast between the purity and beauty of

God's creation and the willful wickedness of man.

I had not lost the strong instinct of self-preservation, which, so far

at least, through the kind aid of Providence, had enabled me to preserve

my life; and in my lonely walk toward San Miguel I was careful to keep

in the open valley, and avoid, as much as possible, coming within range

of the rocks and bushes. In about an hour I saw the red tile roofs and

motley collection of ruinous old buildings that comprised the former

missionary station of San Miguel. A gang of lean wolfish dogs ran out to

meet me as I approached, and it was not without difficulty that I could

keep them off without resorting to my revolver, which was an alternative

that might produce a bad impression where I most hoped to meet with a

friendly reception. As I approached the main buildings I was struck with

the singularly wild and desolate aspect of the place. Not a living being

was in sight. The carcass of a dead ox lay in front of the door, upon

which a voracious brood of buzzards were feeding; and a coyote sat

howling on an eminence a little beyond. I walked into a dark, dirty

room, and called out, in what little Spanish I knew, for the man of the

house. "_Quien es?_" demanded a gruff voice. I looked in a corner, and

saw a filthy-looking object, wrapped in a poncho, sitting lazily on a

bed. By his uncouth manner and forbidding appearance I judged him to be

the vaquero in charge of the place, in which I was not mistaken. With

considerable difficulty I made him comprehend that I had lost my mule,

and supposed it had strayed to San Miguel.

"_Quien sabe?_" said the fellow, indifferently.

[Illustration: SAN MIGUEL.]

Could he not find it? I would be willing to reward him. I would give

him the blankets. I was an _Oficial_, and was on my way to San Luis

Obispo. To each of these propositions the man returned a stupid and

yawning answer, "_Quien sabe_--who knows?"

Finding nothing to be gained on that point, I asked him for something to

eat, for I was well-nigh famished with hunger. He pointed lazily to a

string of jerked beef strung across the rafters. It required but little

time to select a few dry pieces, and while I was eating them the fellow

asked me if I had any tobacco. I handed him a plug, which speedily

produced a good effect, for he got up and passed me a plate of cold

tortillas. When I had somewhat satisfied the cravings of hunger, I asked

him, in my broken Spanish, if he had heard of the murder--five persons

killed in an old adobe house near by. "_Quien sabe?_" said he, in the

same indifferent tone. "_Muchos malhos hombres aqui._" This was all he

knew, or professed to know, of the murder.

"Amigo," said I, "if you'll get my mule and bring him here, I'll give

you this watch."