enough to reach the station, had he not fallen in with me, almost by a miracle, as he did.
"I always loved children, though I had none of my own; and my heart's warmest sympathy was enlisted for this poor, suffering boy. I had some water with me, in my canteen, and, by the greatest good luck imaginable, a handful of dry soda-crackers in my pocket,—the remains of my afternoon lunch. He swallowed the water with trembling eagerness, and munched the dry crackers, in spite of his sore mouth, swollen tongue, and bleeding lips, as he rode back to the station behind me on my horse, telling his story, little by little, as he could collect his thoughts and call to mind the incidents.
"He was a half-orphan, his mother having died a year before at Hermosillo. His father had gone to Alta California, three years before, leaving him and his mother in Sonora, to follow him when his circumstances would warrant sending for them; and on the mother's death, he had written for the boy to come with the first party of friends who might be going over the road, to join him at Los Angeles. The party which had been murdered were not relatives, but kind friends; and, Spanish-like, he had become so attached to them that he mourned their fate so deeply as to almost forget his own fearful peril, and helpless, lonely condition, when he spoke of it, with tears coursing down his sunburned, blistered face, and sobs and sighs choking his utterance. Before we reached the station, I had already come to look upon him as my peculiar charge,—a waif thrown in my way by Providence, which I was bound
