on his side, pierced by two bullets, and in
the last agonies of death. Applying my
knife to his throat, I made an end of his
sufferings, and then looked eagerly around
for my .friend. He was nowhere to be
seen. I called but no answer. This
somewhat surprised me, as I felt certain
of having heard his voice in this direction.
Thinking he could not be far off, I repeated
bis name at the top of my lungs, but with
no better success.
Although somewhat alarmed, I consoled myself by thinking I must have been mis taken in the sound I had heard, and that at >11 events he would soon make his ap pearance. With this, I seated myself on the ground, and throwing the breech of my rifle down the mountain, occupied my self in loading it.
Minute after minute went by, but no Huntly appeared, and I began to grow ex ceedingly uneasy. For a while I fancied he might be watching me from some, near covert, just to note the eflect of his ab sence; but when a half hour had rolled around, and nothing had been seen nor heard of him, I became alarmed in earnest.
Springing to my feet, I shouted his name several times, with all the accents of fright and despair. Then darting down to the valley, I ran round the foot of the mountain, making the woods echo with my calls at every step. In half an hour more I had gained the point where we parU'd but still no Huntly. God of mercy! who can describe my feelings then! Nearly frantic, I retraced my 'steps, touting till my lungs were sore but, alas! with no better success. There lay the an telope, as I had left it, showing that no one had been there during my absence.
Until the shades of night began to settle over the earth, I continued my almost frantic iearch; and then, thinking it possi ble H 1 ntly might have returned to the set tlement, 1 set out for Los Angelos, with the bpeed and feelings of madman.
When I arrived there, it had long been night. To my eager inquiries, each and ail shook their heads, and replied that my
friend had not been seen sine B we departed in the morning. Who could describe, who imagine, my anguish on hearing this 1 Huntly, my bosom companion, was lost. Capturud it might be by guerrillas, or by Indians. Destroyed, perhaps, by some wild beast, or by falling down some preci pice, or into some chasm. Gone he was, most certainly; and I wrung my hands in terrible agony, and called wildly upon his name, though I knew he could not hear me. So great was my distress, that it ex cited the pity of the spectators, several of whom volunteered to go back with me and search for him with torches. The propo sition I accepted eagerly, and that night the mountains sparkled with flaming lights, and their deep recesses resounded the name of my friend, and cries of anguish. All night long we searched faithfully, and shouted with all our might. But, alas! all to no avail. My friend came not answer ed not perhaps never would again.
When daylight once more lighted that fatal spot, and those who had assisted me, declared it useless to search longer that Huntly was either dead or a prisoner my anguish exceeded the strength of my rea son to bear, and I became a raving maniac.
For two months from that date, I had no knowledge of what transpired; and when, by the grace of God, consciousness again returned, I found myself in a feeble state, a close prisoner at Pueblo de los Angelos.
To a noble-hearted Mexican lady, wife of a Mexican military officer, for her kind ness to, and care of, a forlorn stranger, is due a debt of gratitude, which, perhaps, I may never have power to cancel; but which, it is my daily prayer, may be found written upon the eternal pages of the Great Book of All -Good.
In June, a sad, emaciated, almost heart broken being, I resumed my journey to the north. But alas! alas! poor Charles Huntly! His fate was still unknown. His last words to me, spoken gaily, " At all events we shall soon meet again, 1 " had ntrei been fulfilled.
