CHAPTER XI

How Joaquin became a Robber.

It was one of the loveliest mornings of the loveliest of seasons in California—early summer—when two equestrians might have been seen cantering over a level plain not far from San Jose.

‘Surely, Joaquin, this is the sweetest country upon earth, and we the happiest people in it,’ said one of the riders, a young girl of some seventeen summers. As she spoke the glance of her dark lustrous eyes rested lovingly upon the face of the noble-looking man that rode beside her, and whose passionate gaze of admiration told how ardently he loved, nay, worshipped his beautiful companion.—And worthy, right worthy was she of all the love of his passionate nature; for seldom has a more bewitching form graced the earth with its presence, than that of Carmencitto; who had but a few days before become the wife of the youth.

Joaquin was the proprietor of a small ranch, a portion of which they were now riding over. He was gifted by nature with a muscular form, and was reputed to be the most daring rider, and the most skilful herdsman in the country. Carmencitto was the daughter of a wealthy Californian, and had been engaged to Joaquin from childhood.

‘You say truly, dearest,’ replied the horseman. ‘Ours is a goodly land, and it needed not that its rivers should roll over sands of gold to make us love it.’

They were just passing a clump of dense shrubbery as he spoke, and hardly had the last word left his lips ere his spirited steed reared, and had he not been a matchless rider, he must have been hurled headlong from the saddle. As it was, before he fully recovered his seat, a lariat was thrown over his head, and his arms firmly secured to his side. While two men, armed with revolvers, held his horse firmly by the reins—their weapons pointed at his breast.

‘Make a single attempt to escape, and we’ll riddle your carcase with bullets,’ shouted one of his assailants.

‘Shoot the d—d greaser, at once’t,’ cried a low-browed, villainous looking fellow.

‘Curse the yellar skinned devil, I believe he’s glued to the saddle,’ said the first speaker as he tried in vain to pull Joaquin from his seat, the latter meanwhile urging his horse forward but in vain, so firmly was he held by the man who had seized his horse by the head.

The assault had been so unexpected that for a brief instant the young Californian had forgotten Carmencitto, but now a wild piercing shriek recalled her to his mind, and turning round he beheld her dragged from her horse to the earth. His arms were bound, but his feet were at liberty, and he dashed his heavy boots into the face of the men who held his steed. But the same moment a brace of bullets whizzed through the air, and after a few convulsive clutches the young man fell heavily to the earth.

Leaving him, where he had fallen, the men rushed to the assistance of the fellow who had dragged the lady from her steed.

‘For God’s sake, gentlemen, don’t kill Joaquin. He has never injured you.’

‘Don’t fret, honey, ’tisn’t Joe Quin we’re after. ‘Tis your own elegant self,’ said one of the ruffians.

‘So, you d—d stuck-up thing, you wouldn’t dance with me at your outlandish fandango, the other night. Now, my lady, you shall dance to other music;’ and as he spoke he seized her brutally, and inflicted several fierce kisses upon her reluctant lips. Fired by her charms and her resistance, the villain was proceeding to further outrage, when, all her woman’s nature flashing from her indignant eyes, she drew a small thin-bladed stiletto, and sent its bright blade straight to the heart of the ravisher. For a moment, and but for a moment, the villains were appalled at this prompt and terrible retribution. But even the thought of their guilty comrade hurried out of the world in the very act of perpetrating the most heinous offence, could not make them pause in their infernal intentions, for seizing the hapless woman, now become insensible, they bore her into a clump of bushes from which they had sprung upon Joaquin and his bride.

Hours after, when Joaquin returned to consciousness, he found himself bound hand and foot, with strips of green hide. His horse and that of Carmencitto both gone.

Joaquin’s first impulse was to call aloud upon the name of his young wife. But all was silent. ‘Holy Virgin!’ he exclaimed, as recollection began fully to return to him. ‘Where art thou, Carmencitto?’ he shouted. A low, faint moaning was heard in the neighboring shrubbery. Again, and again, the wretched youth called loudly on Carmencitto. But the only replies he received were the faint moanings, which his foreboding heart, rather than his ear, told him came from the lips of Carmencitto. His suspense became insupportable. He would—he must—learn all. Even though that all confirmed a horrid suspicion that chilled the blood to his very heart.

With the fierceness of a starving coyote he gnawed the green hide that confined his arms, and they once released he soon entirely disengaged himself. He sprang to his feet, and rushed in the direction from whence the sounds of distress proceeded. Better had he been smitten with eternal blindness than ever have gazed upon that sad, sad spectacle.

Carmencitto lay almost senseless upon the grass. Her modest garments torn to shreds, exposed her fair young bosom, slowly heaving, as if with the latest sobs of expiring life. Her cheeks were colorless. Her lips white as chalk, except where they were dabbled with the crimson blood, that was slowly oozing at every respiration of her heaving breast! In one of her little pale hands she clutched a small gold crucifix, which the villains had overlooked in their lust or haste.

As Joaquin burst through the thicket and stood before her, the closed lids of her black eyes slowly opened, and she cast one look full of love and sorrow upon her heart-broken husband.

Tearing his black locks he flung himself on his knees by her side, and tenderly raising her, he pressed her to his heart and while he wiped the blood from her lips, his tears fell thick and fast upon her upturned face.

‘Speak to me, oh! speak to me, Carmencitto. My life! My love! Speak! Oh, God, what have I done to deserve this? Speak, dearest Carmencitto,’ and he pressed the form of his young wife again and again close to his heart. But no reply came from those dear lips.

Near at hand ran a babbling rivulet. To this Joaquin rushed, and scooping out some water in the hollow of his joined hands, laved with it the face of Carmencitto. But all in vain. Life had forever left that darling form, dearer to him than all the gold that strews the placers of his native land.

When Joaquin became certain that she was indeed dead, his grief at first found vent in the most pathetic lamentations; but suddenly pausing, he dashed the teardrops from his eyes, and drawing a dagger from its sheath, he swore upon its cross-hilt eternal vengeance on the ravishers and murderers of his Carmencitto.

Then decently arranging her disordered garments, he lifted her sacred form in his arms, and bore it to his home—henceforth forever desolate.

From the hour in which he saw the rude tomb raised over the ashes of his murdered wife, Joaquin left forever the home that promised to be such a happy one, and went forth an altered man. The crucifix of poor Carmencitto _on_ his heart—revenge rankling in it.

From that time strange rumors began to circulate through California of daring robberies and frequent murders, and although no proofs of the guilty party could be obtained; yet when men spoke of them their pale lips almost involuntarily muttered ‘_Joaquin!_’

When Inez returned to her father’s residence at the Mission, her first resolve was to acquaint her parent with the circumstances, but she found that he had been hastily summoned to a place at some distance, in consequence of a dispute between one of his tenants and a squatter.

Joaquin, whose advice she asked, recommended that she should wait the coming of morning, when if Monteagle was not liberated, the authorities should be informed of the matter, and by their interference his liberation would no doubt easily be effected. But Joaquin had his own private reasons for not visiting the city.

In the morning Inez accordingly rode to the city, and almost the first person she passed was Monteagle, who was just then repairing to the store of Mr. Vandewater. Of course there was no occasion for Inez to interfere farther in the matter. Her first impulse was to ride up to him and congratulate him on his escape, but maidenly pride checked her, and she proceeded on, leaving Monteagle in entire ignorance of the deep interest she felt in his fortunes, and of the efforts she had made to rescue him the previous evening.

Monteagle, meanwhile, sought his home to take a few hours rest, for both mind and body were terribly racked by the sufferings he had undergone.

The day after the robbery of Mr. Vandewater’s store, a group of some half-dozen men were assembled around a fine fire kindled on the ground, in the midst of a dense thicket, at the foot of the mountains, on the Contra Costa side of the Bay of San Francisco.

‘He’s a daring young devil, and with pluck, quickness, and a little science, I’m d—d if I don’t think he could whip any thing of his weight in the world.’

This remark was made by Belcher Kay to Blodget, as Maretzo, who was one of the party, finished narration of Monteagle’s assault upon him, and his consequent escape.

‘Curse his pluck, and your science Belcher. If ever I draw trigger on either of you all your science wouldn’t save you from a quick trip to ‘kingdom come.’ But, the deuce take it, I dare not show my face in the city; for Monteagle will surely denounce me to that devilish Vigilance Committee, and then my fun’s up,’ said Blodget.

‘Well, old fellow,’ said Kay, ‘I’ll see that you’re well supplied with everything needful, till this thing blows over. You stay out here and make yourself comfortable. If we could only get this Monteagle out of the way, all would go right. For from what Maretzo learned in the city, none of us are suspected except you, and you only because you kept Monteagle’s company. Well, if that ain’t a good ’un, I’m blowed,’ continued Belcher Kay, laughing heartily at the idea of Monteagle’s leading Blodget astray.

‘I am this Monteagle’s debtor for that blow he gave me,’ said Maretzo, and his dark eyes flashed with vindictive hate. ‘I’ll get him out of the way.’

‘Have a care, Maretzo, that knife of yours will bring us all into trouble some of those days,’ said Blodget.

‘This time it will not be the knife, but something even surer still,’ and as he spoke, he exhibited a small bottle. ‘A drop from this vial, and his tongue will never harm us again.’

‘Well,’ said Kay. ‘We’ll think over this matter. But just now let’s split the swag.’

And forthwith the thieves proceeded to apportion out the thirty thousand dollars equitably between them, not forgetting a share for some who were absent but who belonged to the gang, and were entitled by their rules to a share of the plunder obtained in the course of their marauding expeditions.

For some days after Monteagle’s dismissal he was too unwell to leave the house, but when he was sufficiently recovered to walk the street, he was surprised to find that all his former friends and associates either passed him with a slight nod of recognition, or gave him the cut direct. He was entirely at a loss to account for their conduct. Being out of a situation was not such an unusual thing in San Francisco, as to make a man’s friends shun him. Nor could it be the fear that he might be transformed from a lender to a borrower, for no where are men more ready to assist a friend or even a stranger than in this country. Monteagle was not aware that from certain vague hints which Brown contrived to set afloat respecting the robbery that Monteagle’s name was in some manner mixed up in the affair. The very indefiniteness of the rumor being the reason of its never reaching Monteagle’s ear.

So that he who was most deeply interested in it, was almost the only one in the whole city who had not heard of the accusation. Of course his sudden dismissal from Mr. Vandewater’s employ gave an appearance of truth to the story, which was more strongly confirmed by Vandewater’s declining to assign any cause for Monteagle’s dismissal when questioned on the subject.

Monteagle, whose generous disposition but little fitted him for hoarding money, was now by his sudden and unexpected loss of employment thrown entirely destitute on the world.

At first he resolved to depart immediately for the mines. Reflection however made him abandon this purpose. As he was hourly in expectation of a letter of credit from his home in the Atlantic States, which would place him in possession of ample funds, with which it had been his intention to buy a share of Mr. Vandewater’s business.

There was another and far more powerful motive, however, that prevailed upon the young man to refrain from leaving San Francisco. In the hurry of business as in the allurements of pleasure one form was ever present with him. Need we say it was that of the lovely maiden whom he had borne in his arms from the devouring flames.

Although he avoided meeting Inez Castro, and her father, it was not that he did not ardently wish to meet with her; but his delicacy shrank from seeming to take advantage of the fact that he had conferred so great an obligation on them, and he feared that gratitude would induce Inez to betray a preference for him which he would fain owe to love alone.

One evening soon after Monteagle’s discharge from employment, and after all attempts to procure a situation had proved futile, he wandered about the streets in that sad, dejected mood which comes over one, when friendless and moneyless in a great city.

Following a large crowd, he found himself in an extensive bookstore adjoining the Post Office. This was the general rendezvous of merchants, and others, while awaiting the tardy operations of Uncle Sam’s officials. Huge stacks of daily, weekly, and ‘California edition’ papers were rapidly disappearing in supplying the clamorous demands of the eager throng anxious to hear from ‘the old folks at home.’

Monteagle moved among them like a perfect stranger. He felt as though a brand was upon him; but the reason was to him a perfect mystery. Every eye, however open and direct its glance for others, became cold and averted when it met his.

He was about turning to leave the store, his sad feeling legibly expressed on his fine features, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder and turning quickly he confronted Mr. G—, one of the proprietors.

‘Ah, good night, Monteagle. Here’s your Herald, and the rest of your papers.’

‘Thank you, Mr. G—, but,’ and Monteagle lowered his tone, while his cheek was flushed, ‘I’ll come in again—in fact—I’m penniless.’

‘Never mind that,’ replied the bookseller. ‘Here take the papers,’ and as he spoke, he slipped a twenty dollar piece into his hand.

‘Thank you—thank you,’ cried the grateful youth. ‘I expect a remittance from home to-morrow, and then I will repay you.’

But had Monteagle seen the expression of the bookseller’s manly face, he would have known that he was repaid already. His own noble heart approved the generous, and with him by no means unusual act.

On the morning succeeding, Monteagle had early taken his place in the Post Office line, (as extensive as that of Banquo’s issue which flitted before the eyes of the Scottish regicide,) awaiting the delivery of their letters.

This line is one of the most singular sights in the world, composed not only of representatives from every section of our own country, but from almost every nation on the face of the globe.

Monteagle was disappointed. There was no letter for him.

Only those who have been thousands and thousands of miles away from home, can understand the full effect of this crushing disappointment. Instantly the mind conjures up many dismal reasons as the cause of the non-arrival of the expected letters. What can be the matter?—Have our friends forgotten us, has sickness wasted the hand that used to seize the pen with such avidity to tell us all the warm feelings the writers entertained for us? Or has death forever stilled the beatings of those hearts we dearly loved?

Months we know must elapse ere these questions can have a response, and in the meanwhile we must experience all the bitterness of hope deferred.

Monteagle left the Office almost envying the lucky ones who were tearing the envelopes from the missives they had received and with eager eyes scanning the lines. But could Monteagle have narrowly watched the different readers, he would have seen that in the majority of instances the letters brought news that had better never reached the recipients. Here a splendid looking fellow, the very embodiment of manly beauty, read a letter that informed him that the girl, in hopes of wedding whom he had left home to win a fortune in California, had been married to a man with no other recommendation than a hundred thousand dollars. There might be seen a stalwart man, his rough cheek blanched and the tears gushing from his eyes, as he read that his only daughter—the cherished idol of his affections, had gone to the narrow house, appointed for all the living. But we need not pursue the theme, any one who has noticed attentively the ‘line’ we speak of has seen matter for much and melancholy meditation, even if he has been fortunate enough to experience none of those bitter disappointments himself.

Belcher Kay and his fellow-rogues soon expended the money they obtained by the robbery of Vandewater’s store in riotous living. So a new crime was determined on.

But it was necessary that he should be quick in his plans, for his means were daily becoming more limited, and he was well aware that success depended in a great measure upon promptitude. But what was he to do when his pecuniary resources were entirely exhausted.

This was a troublesome thought, and one which he was unable for some time to answer satisfactorily in his own mind. Money he must have by some means or another, or he would not have it in his power to carry on his nefarious projects with any chance of success, and the bare idea of being reduced to poverty, after the life of indolence, luxury, and extravagance he had led, made the villain shrink with dread. No—no—such a fate must not be his, and he determined to avoid it, even if the means he should have to adopt in doing so, he should have been compelled to adopt the most desperate and dangerous schemes.

From any crime, however revolting, it might be, it has been very clearly shewn to the reader that Kay would not shrink; and, after deliberating for a short time within himself what was next to be done, he at last came to the determination of going for a few nights on the highway, and thus trying his fortune. If in adopting this guilty resolution, the villain should have to perpetrate murder, he would not have foreborne to do it, sooner than he would have been disappointed of his object.

Accordingly, on the following night, after he had come to this resolution, Kay, well armed, secretly quitted the hotel where he was lodging, and took his way to a lonely road, that led to the Mission, which was, notwithstanding, much frequented. Here he secreted himself, and eagerly watched the approach of some traveller who might possess the means about him of satisfying his wants.

Belcher had taken good care to strengthen his determination by drinking deeply, before he started on his guilty purpose, and he now felt fully prepared for whatever might happen. Money he had made up his mind he would have at all hazards, and therefore it was not a trifle that was at all likely to move him from his purpose.

The place which Kay had chosen to conceal himself, was just at the entrance of a dark and dismal lane, which branched off the road, and was a very convenient place for the perpetration of a deed like that he contemplated.

Here then he seated himself upon the ground, where he could have a distinct view of the road for some distance, and every person that approached.

It was a very fine night; the moon shone brightly in the heavenly arch, and countless myriads of stars added their twinkling lustre to her radiant beams.

Kay sat there for some time in a state of apathy, his thoughts wandered to no particular objects, but still his mind intent upon the desperate crime he had resolved to perpetrate if the opportunity should be afforded him.

At last, however, becoming impatient, and feeling rather cold, for the night air was keen, he arose, and walked for some distance along the road, taking care to keep close to the bushes, that separated it from the adjoining fields, and where he was less likely to be observed.

In the course of a conversation which Belcher had overheard between the landlord of the hotel and his wife after they had retired to bed, (for they slept in the next chamber to him, and the rooms only being parted by a very slight partition of canvas, he could hear every word they uttered,) he had learnt that a drover, who invariably called at their house, and who usually had a large sum of money about him, was expected there that day, and he was also enabled to ascertain that this was the road he always came; but he could not think of making an attempt to commit a robbery in the open daylight, and when his detection would be almost certain to follow, and thus his nefarious wishes would be foiled. But then, as he understood that the drover usually slept at the hotel, the villain thought there might still be a chance left of his being enabled to rob him in the night.

This, however, would be attended with considerable danger, for suspicion would, in all probability, light upon him, and should he abandon the place, it would, undoubtedly, be a direct confirmation of his guilt, and would put him to great inconvenience in having to quit the neighborhood.

Reflecting therefore, in this manner, Kay was constrained to give up all thoughts of plundering the drover, although it was with much reluctance that he did so, for he had no doubt but that he should from him have been sure to have got a very rich booty.

The day which succeeded the night on which Kay had overheard the conversation we have spoken of, was passed by him in a state of great agitation and uncertainty, and at one time he would determine upon some daring scheme, which the next moment would make him abandon all idea of.

The drover, however, did not come to the house that day, but Kay gathered from the conversation of his host, that he would sure to be there that night, so that he might be in time for the market on the following morning. Kay caught at this information, and his hopes once more revived; he resolved to lay wait for him, and make a desperate attempt to rob him as he had at first designed.

Kay was no coward, as that which has been already related, will fully prove, and he was, therefore, prepared for any resistance which his marked victim might make, and he had made up his mind not to be defeated easily. But from what he could learn, the drover was an old man, and one who was not very likely to offer much resistance, especially when he saw that the individual who attacked him was well armed, and a determined man, and, therefore, Kay calculated that his success was almost certain.

He had taken the precaution to provide himself with a mask and poncho, so that he might be fully enabled to disguise himself, and these were the more indispensable for the villain’s safety, as he intended to return to the hotel after the perpetration of the robbery.

Impatient and gloomy, Kay continued to traverse the road for some time, but still he saw no signs of the traveller or of any other person, and he began to despair. The place was sufficiently quiet and lonely to inspire no very pleasant reflections in the mind of Kay, and so rapidly did they crowd upon his brain, that he had not strength to endure them, and he almost made up his mind to abandon his villainous project, and return to the hotel to seek that society which might alone banish such fearful thoughts.

At length the solemn booming of the Mission bell vibrated on the air, tolling the hour of ten, and Kay, whose patience was now quite tired out, and whose disappointment could only be equalled by chagrin, resolved to wait no longer but to return to the hotel.

He had just turned round for that purpose, when the low trampling of horses’ hoofs, at a distance, arrested his purpose and rekindled his hopes.

The sounds proceeded from behind him, and looking eagerly along the road as far as his eyes could penetrate, at first he could not perceive anything, but at length he beheld a horse trotting slowly along the road, in the direction of the place where he was standing, and bearing on his back a person who he was unable at present, to observe, distinctly.

‘It must be him!’ muttered Kay to himself, and hope once more elated and nerved him. His mind was fully made up; he would have all the money the grazier had about him, even, if to obtain it he had to embrue his hands in his blood.

Quickly the miscreant glided cautiously along the darkest and most overshadowed part of the road, and he once more reached the entrance to the lane which the traveller must pass; and which appeared to him to be the most convenient spot for the perpetration of the deed.

‘But—but—’muttered Kay, ‘I will not harm him—no—no—I will not harm him, if I can avoid it! I do not want his blood, but his money, it will be his own fault should he lose his life.’

Nearer and nearer the rider approached, and at length he had got to within a very short distance of the place where Kay was concealed, and by the bright light of the moon, he was enabled to have a distinct view of his person.

He was a thickset man, about sixty, and carried with him a short whip with a very heavy handle. He was whistling merrily along the road, apparently, quite happy and unsuspicious of any danger, and what Kay could perceive of his features, he looked like a man who was not likely to be easily intimidated. Again he muttered to himself,—

‘I hope he will resign his money easily; I hope he will not make any resistance; I would not have his blood upon my conscience, but his money _I will_ have.’

The man had now got to within a very short distance of the lane, and Kay had no doubt from the description which had been given of him, that this was the grazier.

He clenched his fist nervously, and involuntarily placed his other hand on one of the pistols which he carried with him.

‘I will let him pass me,’ thought Kay, ‘I will let him pass me before I pounce out upon him, and then I shall take him more by surprise, and he will be less likely to offer any resistance.’

The traveller had now left off whistling, and had broke into a negro melody, which he sang in self-satisfied tones, but which were anything but harmonious.

‘Your money or your life!’ cried Kay in a disguised voice, rushing up to the traveller, from his place of concealment, and laying hold of the horse’s bridle.

The old man, was of course, rather startled, but he collected himself in a moment, and with the utmost coolness, said:—

‘I tells thee what it is, young man, you’re on a bad errand, and I advise you let go the bridle, and go about your business, before harm come to you.’

‘There, there, no nonsense,’ replied Kay, in an impatient tone; ‘I am a desperate man and must have money.’

‘D—n you, you are a daring rascal,’ cried the traveller, ‘let go of the bridle, or it may not be long ere I make you repent thy job. Leave go of the bridle, I again tell you! You won’t, then, d—n me, if I don’t soon make you, and that’s all about it.’

With these words the traveller flourished his heavy whip, and aimed a blow at the head of Kay with the butt-end of it, which if he had not stepped quickly aside and avoided would, in all probability have deprived him immediately of farther power.

‘Old idiot!’ cried the enraged ruffian, ‘you will urge me to that which I would rather avoid; will you deliver up your money, I say, once more?’

‘No,’ promptly replied the old man; ‘I’ll see you d—d first, and all such scoundrels.’

‘Then, by h—ll! you will have to pay for your obstinacy with your life!’ cried Kay, hastily groping about beneath his poncho to get out one of the pistols.

The old man immediately guessed at what he was about, and sprang from his horse’s back with the agility of a youth, and the moment that Kay got out his pistol, and before he could cock it, he closed with him, and being a strong, powerful man, the struggle threatened to be a determined one.

Kay, however, was wound up to a pitch of desperation, for it was a moment of life or death, and he was taken somewhat by surprise, as, from the age of the traveller, he had not expected such an antagonist.

Kay was a very muscular man, and had youth on his side, and he, of course, mustered up all his strength for this occasion, and endeavoured to get his hands at liberty; but the old man had pinned them with such an iron grip, that all his efforts were ineffectual, and maledictions the most terrible escaped his lips, as the danger of his situation became every instant greater; for, as his strength decreased, so did that of the traveller appear to increase, and he expected nothing less that he must be overpowered.

The struggle lasted several minutes, the traveller having pinched the hands of Kay so tightly, that he was compelled to drop the pistol to the ground, and which the former was afraid to secure, for fear that, in resigning his hold of the robber, he should lose the advantage he had gained. But at length the foot of Kay caught in something on the ground, and he fell, dragging the old man with him.

Fortunately, the traveller did not fall upon him, or his weight would have quickly decided the combat, and Kay would have been defeated, but he fell by his side, and consequently was obliged to leave go his hold; and Kay, seeing the moment of advantage, and probably the only opportunity of saving his life, jumped to his feet with the speed of lightning, and snatching the pistol from his bosom, he sprang upon the old man, knelt upon his chest,—he pressed the fingers of his other hand tightly in his throat until the old man was nearly strangled, he presented the pistol at his head as he exclaimed—

‘You deserve to lose your life for your infernal obstinacy, and it is at this moment in my power; but I do not wish to harm you if I can help it. Now, then, your money.’

The old man who was quite overpowered by the pressure on his chest, and the violence with which Kay pressed his knuckles into his throat, he tried to speak, but could only make a sign to his coat-pocket, which Kay understanding, released the old man from the hold which he had taken of his throat; and, putting his hand into his pocket, to which he had directed his attention, he drew forth a canvas bag apparently well loaded, and depositing it carefully in his bosom, he secured both the pistols, and, rising from the ground, he said to the still prostrate traveller—

‘Beware! you see that I have all the power of your life or death in my hands; if you move a step to pursue me, until I am out of sight, that instant you die!’

The old man did not make any reply, for he had not yet recovered from the effects of the combat, and was unable to utter a word; and Kay, having satisfied himself that he had secured all the money in his possession, hastily retreated from the spot, and springing into the fields, threw away the poncho, and made the best of his way towards the hotel, which he reached in an almost inconceivable short space of time, and, without betraying any emotion, entered the bar, as was his usual custom, and taking his seat called for a mug of ale.

He had not been there long, when he heard a loud shouting and hallooing outside the house, and he immediately recognized the tones.

‘Why,’ said the landlord, laying down his pipe, ‘that certainly is the voice of a friend; what the deuce can be the matter with him?’

Kay felt a little alarmed; but he concealed his agitation, and continued with apparent unconcern, to smoke his pipe, and to be completely absorbed in the enjoyment of that and his ale. He would have been glad to have retired to his chamber, so that he might have escaped all observation, but he was fearful that he might, by so doing, probably excite suspicion, and he therefore kept his seat and pretended to take no notice of what was passing.

The landlord having hastened to the door of the house to meet his guest, and to inquire what was the matter with him was quickly heard returning accompanied by the old man, who was grumbling, and swearing all the way.

On entering the bar, the drover gazed round upon the different persons there assembled, but appeared to take little notice of Kay, whose assumed color, no doubt, removed every idea of his being the robber from his mind.

‘He was a most desperate scoundrel, whoever he is,’ said the drover, ‘and I feel the effects of his d—d knuckles on my throat, now. I wish I could only meet with the fellow, and I warrant me he’d not escape from my clutches again, very easily.’

‘This is a bad job, a terrible bad job,’ said the landlord.

‘Aye, it is indeed a bad job,’ said the drover, ‘two thousand dollars is no small sum to lose as times go.’

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