He told a plausible story. He professed not to
know the man, or the place; but did not explain how it was, that,
knowing neither, he had gone so direct to the spot.
He said: "I followed the trail for some time, but when I reached a
turn, I came into a sort of blind trail, where I lost the track. I think
the horse had been led up on hard sod, to mislead any one on the
track. I pushed on, crossed the creek, and soon found the tracks
again in soft ground. This part of the mountain was perfectly
unknown to me, and very wild. Finally I came to a ridge, from
which I looked down on a little ranch. As I came near the house,
the dogs began to bark, just as I discovered my horse tied to a tree.
Hearing the dogs, an Indian, or Mexican, I could not tell which,
came out of the house, flourishing a large knife. I called out to
him, 'Whose horse is that?' He answered in Spanish, 'It is mine.'
'Where did you get it?' I asked. 'In San Jacinto,' was his reply. As
he still came towards me, brandishing the knife, I drew my gun,
and said, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!' He did not stop, and I fired; still he
did not stop, so I fired again; and as he did not fall, I knocked him
down with the butt of my gun.
Pages:
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668