around, the soldiers keep a morose silence, puffing the corn-husk
cigarette. The leader gives rapid directions. Valois now recalls
his locality as best he can. Fremont's camp on Gavilan Peak commands
the Pajaro, Salinas, and Santa Clara. A bright sun peeps over the
hills. If taken west, his destination must be Monterey; if south,
probably Los Angeles; and if north, either San Francisco Bay or
the Sacramento, the headquarters of the forces of Alta California.

Dragged like a beast from his post, leaving the lines unguarded!
What a disgrace! Bitterly does he remember his reveries of the home
he may never again see.

The party mounts. Two men lead up a tame horse without bridle. The
leader approaches and searches him. All his belongings fill the
saddle-pouches of the chief. A rough gesture bids him mount the
horse, whose lariat is tied to a guard's saddle. Valois rages in
despair as the guard taps his own revolver. Death on the slightest
suspicious movement, is the meaning of that sign.

With rough adieus the party strike out eastwardly toward the
San Joaquin. Steadily following the lope of the taciturn leader,
they wind down Pacheco Pass. Valois' eyes rove over the beautiful
hills of the Californian coast. Squirrels chatter on the live-oak
branches, and the drumming grouse noisily burst out of their
manzanita feeding bushes.

Onward, guided by distant peak and pass, they thread the trail.
No word is spoken save some gruff order. Maxime's captors have the
hang-dog manner of the Californian. They loll on their mustangs,
lazily worrying out the long hours. A rest is taken for food at