revolver. I, who am of a more modest and less ambitious turn of mind, took along only a light No. 14 double-barrelled gun, which once upon a time had done fearful execution at both ends in the Great Winnebago Swamp in Illinois, a flask of powder, one of shot, and a bottle or two of California wine, which had been boiled to concentrate the strength and save freight. Each had marked out a particular line of destruction for himself to follow,—each one equally confident of achieving a mighty triumph in his way. The pathway of our life is strewn with the wrecks of fond hopes blighted and promises unfulfilled; it pains me to reflect upon the harvest of such wrecks which my most intimate friends were called upon to gather on that ever memorable occasion. I doubt if I promised less than one thousand dozen quail, and larger game in proportion; but I call Heaven to witness that I did so honestly, and with the very best intentions as to fulfilling my engagements. It is some consolation to a tax-payer to feel that the pavement of a certain nameless place will not require renewal or repair for many years to come.
We were to go on horseback, starting at 2 p.m. from San Francisco, on the 2d of September. I rode my old pet, a half-breed mare, Juanita, which the accursed, sneaking Chimahuepis Indians stole from my side as I slept, a year later, on the banks of the Colorado River. Lloyd bestrode a fiery, untamed, mouse-colored steed, received from a client subsequently hanged,—he shed no tears over his grave; and the Doctor galloped on the road to
