he had assumed for the dangerous work he was about to engage in--and
they had failed to know him, dressed as he was in the very latest
fashion prevailing among the Americans in Sacramento in '49. Nor was it
to be wondered at, for on his head was a soft, brown hat--large, but not
nearly the proportions of a sombrero; a plain, rough tweed coat and a
waistcoat of a darker tan, which showed a blue flannel shirt beneath it;
and his legs were encased in boots topped by dark brown leggings. In a
word, his get-up resembled closely the type of American referred to
disdainfully by the miners of that time as a Sacramento guy; whereas,
the night before he had taken great pains to attire himself as gaudily
as any of the Mexicans at the dance, and he had worn a short black
jacket of a velvety material that was not unlike corduroy and covered
with braid; his breeches were of the same stuff; above his boots were
leather gaiters; and around his waist was a red sash.

It was now close to four o'clock in the afternoon and the band began
their preparations for the raid. To the rear of the small, open space
where they had been waiting was a fairly good-sized cave, in the opening
of which they deposited various articles unnecessary for the expedition.
It took only a short time to do this, and within half an hour from the
time that their leader had so startled them by his strange appearance,
the outlaws were ready to take the trail for Cloudy Mountain. One
comprehensive glance the pseudo-American--and he certainly looked the
part--shot at his picturesque, if rough-looking followers, not a few of
whom showed red bandannas under their sombreros or around their necks--
and then with a satisfied expression on his face--for he had a leader's
pride in his men--he gave the signal and led the way along and down the
steep trail from the tableland. And as from time to time he glanced back
over his shoulders to where the men were coming along in single file, he
could see that in every eye was a glint of exultation at the prospect of