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edge of the apron, holding tight to the iron railing with one hand until her body was clear and her clothing disentangled. It was not so hard after all.

"Glass, get that truck of eastern from No. 8 bridge," said the foreman. Glass threw the sack which he was handling upon the truck and moved away. The darkness of No. 8 slip blinded him for a moment-then he looked out at the lights glittering above the waters of the bay. He thought he saw something move on the end of the apron, something sliding gently off. He hurried up to it—a white hand was still grasping the rail. He grabbed it quickly-just in time.

His lusty shouts soon brought help. They drew her up and landed her safely on the bridge, from where she was carried back to the Station Master's office and given over to the Traveler's Aid.

It was the old, old story that faltered finally from the lips of the child, for she was hardly more than that. A love, the misplaced love of an innocent girl, and promises unfulfilled, compulsory marriage-ties that were not ties-ties that would not bind. Desertion before the breath that breathed the answer had grown cold-and she the sacrifice. And so the Ferry found and rescued her, gave her back to a loving mother at

least she cared.

I was just returning from my lunch, one day, when opening the office door I got the surprise of my life. There stood the Passenger Director. He was not standing very much either, they were wobbling about considerably, the woman and he, clasped in each other's arms, so to speak. He was not much of a heavyweight, but she was a whopper and after I had caught my breath a couple of times, I dropped down into the chair at my desk and stared blankly at them.

"Grab her, grab her," he gasped, out of breath and it was then that I noticed her eyes were half closed and a pallid look on her face and I hurriedly lent him a hand to get her away from the wall and into the big arm chair which sat in the corner near my desk.

"What's the matter with her, get some water and call a woman, quick!" I said all in one breath.

He did not stop to explain but did my bidding and by that time she was recovering consciousness. She looked about her foolishly for a moment, then apologized to me for fainting and went away with the Traveler's Aid that he had gotten, not even stopping to thank him, but I guess he did not care much by the way he acted.

"What's the meaning of all this noise?" I asked when the surprise party had busted up. "I come back from my lunch and find you embracing this Venus de Jumbo. My entire nervous sys

tem is wrecked and I shall have indigestion for a week."

"T'ain't my fault," he commenced. "I did not know she had a weak heart and I was not hanging onto her because I wanted to either. She came to me and said she had lost her purse on No. 47 and I was telephoning everywhere trying to locate it. She said she had twenty dollars in it that she had been saving up for three years, ever since her husband had come back from France and not able to work. She told me that she lived at Chico and had not seen her mother in San Francisco for three years. She had been saving that twenty dollars all of that time to come back home. Shouldn't have come away and left her husband alone, but she wanted to see her mother so badly and now she tipped over the vase and spilled the whole bouquet. She sure was feeling bad and kept dabbing her handkerchief on her eyes, which had got all red. She had a little imitationleather grip and I asked her to look in it for the purse, but she said that she had and while I was sitting and waiting for the telephone to ring from the passenger yards at Oakland Pier, where I had asked them to search the cars, I got another hunch about that grip. 'Look in the grip, Madame,' I said. 'I did,' she replied. 'Look again,' I repeated. 'No need,' said she. "Then I'll look,' I said. 'No you won't, I'll look myself' said she, and down in the bottom of the grip, carefully packed away she found itthen staged a good sized faint. Can you beat that?"

It was about two o'clock. The boat had landed, discharged its passengers, hurried the east bound load aboard and departed. By the time the two had reached my office they were frantic.

It was fully three minutes before I could get either of them calm enough to talk lucidly and then only by telling them that I would not help if they continued with their disconnected storyboth trying to talk at once, making accusations, denials, verbal thrusts and parries.

The mother was ready to collapse, the father beside himself with fear that the child had been kidnapped and the Travelers' Aid agent to whom they had first appealed seemed powerless to quiet them.

"Now," I said, turning to the man who had begun to realize that he must control himself if he was to work intelligently, "tell me just what has happened."

"Well," he replied, speaking rapidly, "we got off the Shattuck Ave. train at Oakland Mole and went aboard the boat. I was carrying the baby."

"How old was it?" I asked.

"Ten months," he replied. "Alright, go on."

"I found a place near the front end of the boat," he continued, "and seated my wife, placing the baby, who was asleep, between us. My wife had a magazine which she had purchased in Berkeley and began reading a serial story. After the boat had been out for some time, I got up and went to the newsstand bought a cigar and feeling the need of a little fresh air, I stepped out to the front of the boat.

"She says that just a few minutes after I had left my seat some one sat down in it and she thought that it was me, but being deeply interested in her story did not look to see-and did not even look when the boat landed, she just got up from her seat and walked out with the crowd, still reading-expecting me to pick up the baby and follow. In the meantime I had been caught in the crowd in the front end of the boat and could not get back to my seat without a lot of trouble and so I thought that I would walk on out and meet her at the exit near the flower stand. When we did meet and found that neither of us had the baby, I hurried back to the boat, but by that time it was just leaving and I could not get on."

Before he had finished his story, I had Oakland Pier Station Master on the telephone and was asking him to get a man on the boat upon arrival and look for a ten months baby that had gone astray and to call me back as soon as possible.

The father and mother were griefstricken and positive that whoever had sat down in the seat the father had vacated when he went to purchase the cigar, had stolen the child. How the minutes seemed to drag, 2-3—4—5 minutes and no answer. The mother was weeping silently, her whole frame. rocked with suppressed emotion.

Then our already tense nerves were jerked to the snapping point by the jangle of the telephone bell.

"We've got the baby," a voice said, "and Gernant, here, wants to adopt it." I looked at the mother nodding my head and smiling. "It's alright." The voice on the telephone continued, "The matron had the kid. Deck hand found it and thought someone had discarded it, so he took it up and brought it to her to turn in to the Lost Property office."

"Send it right back," I said, "the mother and father are waiting in my office for it and say, Murphy, never mind putting a lost property tag on it." When the boat returned it was a happy mother recovered her baby from the


Walking across the waiting room, I

noticed a woman and a little girl coming from my office door, accompanied by the Passenger Director, who was giving them some information. The woman was middle-aged, I noticed, and shabbily dressed. The girl appeared to be about eleven or twelve years old. They walked quickly toward the gate and out into the lobby where they were soon lost in the crowd.

Something in their appearance left an uneasy feeling in my mind and I moved over to the Passenger Director to ask what they had wanted.

"They were looking for a man on No. 21," he replied. "I told them to watch this boat. No. 21 came in on the last boat, but they said, 'he was not on it,' so I thought he might be on the next one."

I sauntered out to the front and soon found them peering eagerly into the stream of human faces that flowed by in hope of seeing the "someone" for whom they were so anxiously waiting. As the last of the boat load straggled by, acute disappointment registered on their faces.

It was then that I approached them.

"Your friend did not arrive, Madam?"
I questioned.

"No, he did not come on that boat."
"Perhaps he is waiting for you at
Oakland Pier-if you will come with
me I will telephone and find out.'

They came and I telephoned, but Mr. S. was not at the Oakland Mole. Then they showed me a letter from a small town in Ohio, saying that Mr. S. had been put aboard a train in Chicago that should arrive in San Francisco on No. 21 that day.

I explained to them that perhaps connection had been missed and that Mr. S. would arrive on a later train, no doubt, and after promising to notify Oakland Pier to watch for him and that we would do everything possible to locate him when he arrived, I advised them to go home and return the following day.

For six days they haunted the Ferry, I saw them early and late, and day by day the lines of anxiety and worry seemed to grow deeper and deeper. On the sixth day the girl came to my office alone, she was in tears and between sobs she told me the story.

A Group of Sonnets



We called it friendship, friendship all those days
Of peace and war and blessed peace again,
But-poor blind fools!-we let it die, and then
We buried it and went out separate ways.
But if that were not living love's amaze
Such resurrection is beyond my ken;

Why should you seek me in the haunts of men
And follow where I flee from curious gaze?

Why should a red leaf like an oriflamme,
Or sob of waves against a windless shore-
A fall-blown rose forlorn against the stem—
The careless-whispered cadence of your name-
Make my heart quiver, beat its wings and soar
High heavenward, singing its own requiem.


Just as one star shines brighter than the rest
Your vivid face flamed through the crowd to me;
And then I knew that on a mountain crest

Of long ago, by some forgotten sea
Your love was mine; in Tyre or Babylon

I dwelt in luxury, and learned the guile

That broke your warrior heart when wars were won
Beside the languorous, slow-receding Nile.

What though I labor long in jungle shade,
Through Arctic waste or dreary desert heat,
By land or sea I shall not be dismayed

For Fate has promised somewhere we shall meet.
Your face could kindle centuries of gloom
As yesterday it lit the crowded room.

Twelve years before in New York City, he was a prosperous jeweler, his two stores kept him busy. One day while carrying some of his stock of precious stones from one store to the other, he was beset by thugs, robbed and left to die.

They found him three weeks later in one of the city hospitals and after a few months he recovered physically but his mind was gone. He was placed in a sanitarium-then with the small sum left from the wreck of years of saving the mother and her baby came to California. Being untrained, she worked at what she could find-housecleaning, washing, ironing, scrubbing, year after year for five years, saving her nickels and dimes always with the hope that sometime her husband would be well enough to come to her.

Then the letter came, he would be able to travel. The money was sent for the ticket, word came that he had started-but he never arrived.

One year later, a letter addressed to her at General Delivery, San Francisco, arrived. With wondering, trembling (Continued on Page 44)


If you should come again when I am old-
When leaden-footed years have left a trace
Of weariness and pain-a tale oft told,
Upon my hair, my hands, my lifted face-

I shall have learned to bind my heart in bands

Of stillness, even as the wind is still

When storms have had their way, and chastened lands
Are steeped in afterglow no storm can kill.

For many days a sober gray-green vine
Clung patiently to stony garden wall,
Serenely faithful, waiting for a sign.

To blossom when her love came through the tall
Black tops of trees...

white moon-flower 'neath old moon Were blesseder than flaming rose at noon.


When I am bidden come to that dim land
That lies beyond the flaming sunset sky,
I shall be glad to cast aside this dry
Soul-fettering husk of clay... and understand.

I shall be glad to break the fragile band
That binds me to the earth, I shall not cry
For dreams ephemeral, nor question why
Gray pain and golden song walk hand in hand.

Free shall I be and fathomless my sleep,

If nothing lies beyond me but the still
Enfolding arms of earth; above my head
The stars and silent snows will vigil keep

Till I return in laughing daffodil,

But Oh Beloved, you must not call me... dead!

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Down in the restaurant, just so far beyond the gallery as to make it possible to look up and see the musicians, a stranger sat alone at one of the smaller tables. He had given his order and now in the interval of waiting, his heavylidded, expressionless eyes traveled slowly from table to table taking note of the people around him.

A half score of men and women, well groomed, their glances curious but intolerant of their more convivial neighbors, represented a strata of society seldom seen in this locality. Since the little restaurant was well away from its more fashionable brothers, dumped down between ramshackle buildings in the city's Latin quarter, perhaps they would have said they were "slumming."

The stranger's eyes passed on and rested for a moment upon a shop-girl and her sweetheart. They were in love, but they were also hungry. Across plates of steaming raviolis their glances met and lingered.

At another table, a long table, modern Bohemians, true to type, rusty of coat and down at heel, had gathered together to make merry over spagetti and light red wine.

Further away, in a corner close to the wall, and partly shadowed by a screen that hid the way to the kitchen, a strange couple sat together-a withered Italian and a girl. They were alike in their silence, their pre-occupation, the air of tragedy heavy upon them. They were a contrast in their age and youth.

The old man, his white hair thick against the yellow parchment of his wrinkled forehead, stared with dull, half-frightened eyes out at his surroundings the diners, the glittering lights, the hurrying waiters. Then his glance came back to rest upon his companion. She seemed to be the one reality in the mental chaos of a bewildered brain. He turned to her as if for strength and re


At Tontino's


The girl leaned a little forward in her chair, her face uplifted. She was not beautiful, her features were too drawn, her expression too sad for that, but her eyes, like stars in the pallor of her face, made her something more.

and brought forth cigars. One he pushed across the cloth, the other he lit and there was silence for a moment. Thru the smoke haze he studied the young Italian.

"Just why did you do it?" he remanded finally.

"Because of Rosa," the latter returned

The stranger followed her gaze. It quietly. rested upon the face of the violinist.

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It was growing late. Again the last strains of a melody floated out over the diners, and again the music ceased. Applause followed and in its wake the violinist descended the narrow stairway leading from the gallery, and for an encore drew his bow across the strings of his instrument and began one of the songs of the day.

As he played he wandered in and out among the tables, pausing now and then, his eyes lowered to the violin, then on, the music falling on the air like a breath of freshness blown in from out of doors.

Only twice did his eyes meet those of others. Once as he passed the girl and the old Italian his gaze fastened upon her face, and he smiled, but only with his lips. Again he stopped beside the table where the stranger sat alone, and something stronger than his will made him meet the expressionless glance fixed upon him. He remained there until he had finished playing, and even then he did not move away. He stood waiting for the other to speak, and under the noise of clapping hands the stranger said:

"You are Cosmos Camarillo?" It was hardly a question; it was more the statement of a known fact.

The musician bowed. The action

might have been merely in acknowledge

ment of the applause.

"And the girl and the old fellow over there are Rosa Pasquale and her father?"

Once more the violinist bent his head. "Sit down," ordered the stranger, indicating a chair across from him. And when Camarillo, with a glance around at the rapidly thinning crowd, had complied he continue: "Perhaps you would like to know who I am? I am Brooks, Adam Brooks, from-"

"The police," finished his vis-a-vis, calmly. He laid his violin on the table before him. "I am glad you have come. I was tired of waiting." His face had relaxed a little; there was relief in his somber eyes.

Brooks fumbled in an inner pocket

"You love the girl?"

"Love her? Oh, yes! But that was not why I-why I kill him. I kill him because-'

"Wait!" interrupted the inquisitor, raising his hand. "I suppose it is only fair to let you know that anything you tell me may be used against you."

"That's all right," agreed Camarillo. "When I say that I kill him I know what it mean." He drew his hand across his throat indicating an imaginary rope, then clutching his fist gave a jerky motion as though to draw it taut.

Brooks regarded him curiously. He recalled one of the newspaper headlines: "Violinist Murders Owner of Lodging House and Escapes With Woman Tenant." Also the column that followed filled with glaring details. In amongst the rest the unimportant fact that the woman's father had also disappeared was mentioned. With the next paragraph began one of the other lodger's, a Mrs. Flafferty, lurid account of what she knew of the affair.

He nodded his head: "Go on," he said, "you killed Ambetti because—”

The musician ran his long fingers thru his hair and took up his confession.

"I kill him-" he began. "But wait! I will tell you the whole story; all about Rosa and Papa Pasquale. I tell you everything." He threw out his hands in a wide gesture. "When I finish you maybe not think me so bad."

'Ambetti he own a lodging house in Philadelphia and when I first come to this country I go there to live. Ambetti he big man. He very stout. He wear black breeches, and a red sash about his waist and a pink shirt. And when he go out he wear a brown hat, what you call a derby, and his hair stick out all around in little tight black curls." He stopped abruptly. The picture thus conjured up seemed to fill him with a sudden fierce emotion. He clenched his hands and his eyes glittered.

"Suppose you leave out the description and get down to facts," suggested Brooks.

(Continued on Page 38)


RODE homeward by way of the canyon trail. The beauty of the pastoral evening was like enchanted music to my poetic soul; the aromatic breezes red wine to my blood. It was good to be alive; good to be back again in the saddle herding white-faced cattle in mountain meadows lush with snowcrystal streams. So, contentedly, happy and at peace with the world, I sang loudly in a high falsetto voice as I rode out of the pine forest into the mesa trail.

Glancing westward, where the blueish range lifted its saw-toothed ridge against the orange-red sunset, I saw the girl of my heart and my dreams riding leisurely towards me.

I stood up in the stirrups and swung my sombrero around my head in a jubilant greeting. Then I put spurs to my sturdy mustang and raced madly across that glowering upland. But as I approached peil-mell, Betty Lawson threw up her hand in a teasing challenge, swung her pinto in a sweeping circle and was off like the wind. I accepted her defiance with a ringing shout and went tearing after her.

Betty was a tantalizing minx. Just when I thought that my grip on her heart was firmly attached, she mocked my assurance with a coquettish flirtation with one of her several male admirers, and straightway I had another rival to vanquish.

Before I went to France with the American Army, I worshiped this fair daughter of the Big Boss from afar, meaning the range and the corrals; being a shy, awkward youth, with a tongue that had a trick of tying into a knot whenever I ventured a conversation with the girl. But two years of soldiering proved a cure for bashfulness, and when I returned from over seas to the Circle Bar ranch, I threw my hat into the ring of gallant suitors for Betty Lawson's favors, her heart and her hand.

I called loudly upon Betty to halt. She flung gay laughter back at me, and urged her pony to greater effort. But my horse was swift of foot, and it was my laugh when I checked the pinto with a firm hand on the bridle rein.

"You're an imp of a lass with your everlasting teasing o' me." I chided with mock seriousness. "What do you mean by running away like that?"

Betty pretended anger. She tossed her head with mock indignation, but her bright blue eyes held a roguish gleam, and her cupid mouth twitched up at the

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"Hands off, Bob Davis," she commanded. "Can't I go for a ride without you designating yourself my faithful escort?"

I laughed merrily. "Why did you take the ridge trail when you knew that I was returning at the sunset hour?" I taunted.

"You favor yourself too much," "I prefer this mesa for an afternoon canter."

"That's the reason I ride home by the canyon. I'm thinking of you all day, and the sight of you coming to meet me sets my heart aflutter-"

She carelessly interrupted my ardency. "Don't be silly, Bob." "I love you Betty-" "You've told me that a hundred times-"

"I'm going to keep right on telling you, until you promise to become Mrs. Robert Davis-" I boldly admitted. "So you might as well say 'yes,' and relieve the suspense."

"Goodness, Bob!" she shrugged the thought aside. "Do you think 1 m going to settle down to sober married lite on a cattle ranch? I'm young, and the world is mine-as the poet said. I want to live in a whirl of excitement. A big city-"

I promptly interrupted her flight of fancy.

"What's the matter with a cattle ranch, I'm asking you, Betty Lawson? You were born and reared in this upland valley-"

Betty cut in on my protestation.

"That's the reason I want to get away," she sighed wistfully. "I've looked at that mountain range every day for eighteen years. I crave a new vista—. I'm expecting a handsome Prince Charming to come riding up on a white charger-"

"Piffle." I rebuked. "You're too romantic, Betty. Set your lovely eyes upon me. I'm your Prince Charming. And I ride a bald-faced mustang. If you didn't read so many novels, or view so many picture plays, you wouldn't be so fed up on the hero stuff. Now be a sensible girl and give me your promise-"

"I like you, Bob." She confessed as indifferently as if she had admitted a taste for sweets. "But I've made up my mind to marry a city man. A gentle


Her disregard for my personal charms ruffled me a bit.

"Bosh!" I ejaculated. "You've got a fool notion that a man isn't a man unless he looks like one of those male creatures they paint in fashion plates to advertise men's clothing. You think a man's a gentleman if he sports cuffs on his trousers, and wears a striped silk shirt on his spineless back. But I tell ye, no he-man dresses like that-"

Betty twisted her piquant face into a smile.

"You're so homely, Bob, that a cowboy attire becomes you. If a tailor fitted you with a fashionable suit, you would look like the comic male in a slap-stick comedy. Stick to your flannel shirt, red kerchief tie, and corduroy trousers. They fit you like you fit that saddle."

My hopes went soaring like a feather in the wind. I was pleased that she liked my personal appearance. She might tantalize me with her merciless coquetry, but in her heart of hearts she knew that I was her man. I was a persistent suitor, for I was determined to win the girl for my wife. I had a strong arm and a ready fist. Woe to the man who cut in on my wooing.

For a space we rode on in silence. Betty had been raised in the saddle, and she sat her mount like a thoroughbred. Her natty riding habit brought out the pleasing contour of her youthful figure. Her pretty piquant features were olivetinted with wind tan. No wonder that every unattached male within a radius of a hundred miles paid her ardent court. Too much masculine attention will turn the head of any woman. And Betty knew that she could take her choice of the eligible suitors. This knowledge flattered her girlish vanity, and led her to believe that her beauty would attract and fascinate some dudish city youth. And this notion she had of running off to the big town worried me. One should not put a meadow lark in a gilded cage. Betty was a girl of the plains, and she should mate with a man who loved the open places-meaning myself, of course. I drew rein, and swept a panoramic gesture.

"Did you ever see such a glorious sunset, Betty darling? It's God's own country. I just can't understand why folks want to live in cluttered cities, hedged in with brick walls, like a prison. Give me the freedom of the plains, and honest men riding the trails."

(Continued on Page 27)


The Treasure of Joaquin Murieta

HE following story of the haunt

ed house at Tuolumne is of interest chiefly because the principal character is none other than the picturesque outlaw who terrorized the citizens of California in the early 50's, Joaquin Murieta.

Unlike the majority of men who start out on a life of crime, Joaquin did not choose his path in life with malice prepense, but rather had it thrust upon him through the machinations of an unkind fate.

He was born in the city of Sonora, Mexico of quite respectable parents, named Carillo. In his youth Joaquin is said to have been mild, peaceable and of generous impulses. He had the advantages of a common school education, and until his 17th year was much like other boys of his age and station. Then destiny stepped in and took a hand.

Next door to the rancho of Joaquin's father lived a widower called Feliz and his pretty daughter, Rosita. Feliz was a freighter and his business kept him from home the greater part of the time. It did not take the young people long to become acquainted. They had many tastes in common and unlimited opportunity for being in each other's company. Rosita's mother was said to have been of pure Castilian descent and she bequeathed to her daughter much of her grace and charm. Both boy and girl were of that hot southern temperament which knows no law save of its own desire and the inevitable happened.

When Feliz returned from one of his trips and found his daughter's honor had been compromised he drove her from his home. There was no one to whom she could turn save her lover, and to him she went. To Joaquin's credit, instead of trying to evade his responsibilities, he took her in and from that day to the day of his tragic death, five years later, was true to her; though he made it plain from the beginning that he would never marry her. But that has nothing to do with the story. Their mating was at least hallowed and sanctified by love, which is not always the case even when the preacher takes a hand.

Joaquin had a half brother in California who had emigrated some time previously. He wrote glowing letters of the land of promise and its unlimited opportunities. The young people decided to emigrate. They loaded their belongings on pack animals and started out on horseback. They arrived some


time later. Joaquin built a cabin, took up a placer claim and settled down to work.

At that time there were in California a certain class of men who styled themselves "Americans," the riff raff from all quarters of the world lured to the state by the magic spell of gold. These men openly expressed a contempt for all Mexicans, whom they spoke of contemptuously as "greasers".

Shortly after his arrival a number of these men went to Joaquin's cabin and ordered him to leave. He refused, saying he was doing no harm, and that all he wanted was a chance to make an honest living. A fight ensued in which Joaquin overpowered by numbers, was bound hand and foot, while Rosita was seized and assaulted before his eyes. The men then left after once more warning Joaquin to leave before the end of ten days.

Rosita had fainted during the rough usage, but soon came to, and set about unbinding Joaquin who was swearing great Spanish oaths of vengeance. She counseled calmness and patience and in the end her advice prevailed.

Realizing that it would now be impossible for them to stay longer on their placer claim they packed their belongings and started forth to begin life all over again.

and won considerable notoriety among the sporting fraternity for being a "square shooter". Besides this his winning personality and unfailing good nature won him many friends.

Joaquin's half brother, Manuel, lived not far from "Murphy's Diggings," and the two exchanged frequent visits, as Manuel's ranchero was within easy walking distance. One day on one of these visits it commenced to rain and the adobe roads made walking an impossibility. Joaquin borrowed his brother's horse promising to return the animal the next day. Arriving in camp he was met by a number of the rougher element who had watched his growing popularity with envious eyes. They surrounded horse and rider proclaiming that the former had been stolen. In those days. horse stealing was an offense punishable by death. Joaquin denied the charge, stating that the horse belonged to his brother who had bought it from an American, adding that Manuel could show a clean bill of sale for the animal.

The crowd, however, paid no heed to his explanation. Joaquin was compelled to re-mount while the crowd accompanied him to his brother's house. The mob declared the bill of sale a forgery, and Joaquin was forced to witness his brother hanged to the nearest tree, and as a punishment for his share in the transaction he was publicly horsewhipped, and left more dead than alive under the tree from which suspended his brother's body.

Hours after he slowly and painfully

ance of a few faithful friends, buried his brother's body in a hastily dug grave. When the last sod had fallen on the grave, Joaquin swore an oath that all who had had a hand in the day's doing should be brought to punishment. That oath he kept to the letter.

They finally settled in Calaveras county where Joaquin engaged in farming. For a time all went well and they picked himself up, and with the assistwere prosperous and happy. Then one day another wandering band of Joaquin's ancient enemies found him out, swooped down on his little farm and ordered him off the place. Remembering Rosita's advice Joaquin pleaded to be allowed to stay, pointing out that through a treaty Mexico had under Guadaloupe Hildalgo, with the United States, he was legally a citizen of this country, and as such was entitled to the land, but his arguments fell on deaf ears. He was threatened and cursed, and recalling the indignities Rosita had suffered he reluctantly consented to go.


Their destination this time was small mining camp locally known as "Murphy's Diggings". Here Joaquin took up a placer claim, but the venture was not a success. He then turned his attention to "monte," a Mexican card game, very popular in those days. He soon became an expert player. He was very successful in this latest venture,

He returned to "Murphy's Diggings," but he was a changed man. He became moody and taciturn, even Rosita failed to arouse an echoing response. He avoided Americans and finally fled to the hills where he gathered a band of outlaws together, men as contemptuous of the law as himself. He became their leader and succeeded in terrorizing the whole of California. From a peaceful, law abiding citizen, he became a dynamic instrument of revenge.

One by one those who had persecuted him paid the penalty. Thus he became an outlaw with a price on his head.

When the last of his enemies had

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