To be laughed at on rousing the camp? Never! But his inner nature
tingles now with the mysterious thrill of danger. Eagerly he scans
his post. The bleak blasts have benumbed his senses.

Far away to the graceful groves and Gallic beauties of Belle
Etoile his truant thoughts will fly once more. He wonders why he
threw up his law studies under his uncle, Judge Valois, to rove in
this wilderness.

Reading the exploits of Fremont fascinated the gallant lad.

As his foot falls wearily, the flame of his enthusiasm flickers
very low.

Turning at the end of his post he starts in alarm. Whizz! around
his neck settles a pliant coil, cast twenty yards, like lightning.
His cry for help is only a gurgle. The lasso draws tight. Dark
forms dart from the chaparral. A rough hand stifles him. His arms
are bound. A gag is forced in his mouth. Dragged into the bushes,
his unknown captors have him under cover.

The boy feels with rage and shame his arms taken from his belt.
His rifle is gone. A knife presses his throat. He understands the
savage hiss, "Vamos adelante, Gringo!" The party dash through the
chaparral.

Valois, bruised and helpless, reflects that his immediate death
seems not to be his captors' will. Will the camp be attacked? Who
are these? The bitter words show them to be Jose Castro's scouts.