foothills, and visit Altascar. I soon perfected my arrangements, bade
farewell to Wise, and took a last look at the old man, who was sitting
by the furnace fires quite passive and composed. Then our boat head
swung round, pulled by sturdy and willing hands.

It was again raining, and a disagreeable wind had risen. Our course lay
nearly west, and we soon knew by the strong current that we were in the
creek of the Espiritu Santo. From time to time the wrecks of barns
were seen, and we passed many half-submerged willows hung with farming
implements.

We emerge at last into a broad silent sea. It is the "LLANO DE ESPIRITU
SANTO." As the wind whistles by me, piling the shallower fresh water
into mimic waves, I go back, in fancy, to the long ride of October
over that boundless plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distant
hills, which are now lost in the lowering clouds. The men are rowing
silently, and I find my mind, released from its tension, growing
benumbed and depressed as then. The water, too, is getting more shallow
as we leave the banks of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlessly
over the thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the tide
to have somewhat fallen. There is a black mound, bearing to the north of
the line of alder, making an adverse current, which, as we sweep to the
right to avoid, I recognize. We pull close alongside and I call to the
men to stop.

There was a stake driven near its summit with the initials, "L. E. S.
I." Tied halfway down was a curiously worked riata. It was George's. It
had been cut with some sharp instrument, and the loose gravelly soil of
the mound was deeply dented with horses' hoofs. The stake was covered
with horsehairs. It was a record, but no clue.