glory and renown on a livery hack warranted to be 'just lightning," and better able to make good the warranty than any other four-legged brute on the top of the earth, to the best of my knowledge and belief. From the plaza to the boat-landing—about half a mile—the journey was comparatively uneventful, the Doctor having merely run down an old woman at the crossing of Battery and Washington Streets, while Lloyd's horse, having collided with a passing vehicle, got even by wheeling suddenly and letting fly his heels at me viciously, one hitting the saddle and nearly knocking me out of it, the other making a deep indentation in the barrel of my gun and sending it flying some ten feet out of my hand. I killed nobody myself. We disembarked in safety at San Ouentin; many of Lloyd's clients had done the same in years gone by,—the State Prison is located half a mile from that landing.
Here the trouble began. The Doctor, by reason of his greater age and presumably riper judgment and greater discretion, was entrusted with the transportation of the saddle-bags, in which were packed a chicken-luncheon, a lot of ammunition, and a few bottles. He hung them across the back of his saddle, gravely mounted to his seat, grasped his deadly rifle firmly, and gave the signal for the start in a loud clear voice: Vamos! It was as even a start as I ever saw on a race-track, all three horses bounding about ten feet at the first jump. Mousey, Lloyd's horse, shot a little ahead; Juanita followed close on his flank; and Whitey, the Doctor's incomparable mustang, dropped a trifle in the
