participants. Upon finding that I was lost, I began to blame myself for not going boldly into one of the several farm houses, making myself known, requesting food and a conveyance to Fresno or Modesto, to deliver myself up to a sheriff who was not an actual participant in the mob, much less in sympathy with the same.

But I kept up my courage, and tried to discover my bearings. I thought I must be somewhere near Mariposa Creek; so trudging along for about two hours longer, I found that I had guessed rightly, and I struck the above mentioned creek about a mile or two north of the railroad crossing, and knew my whereabouts to a certainty. I clambered down its steep banks on one side and up on the other, when I espied a man about one hundred yards distant, armed with a rifle. Although the fog still continued to hang over the valley, I was fearful lest he had seen me. Immediately upon sighting him, I couched down in the tall grass, which grew quite rank on the banks of the creek at this particular spot, and cautiously raised my head to see if I had been discovered; as I did so, I perceived he had seen me. He was about sixty or eighty yards off, was standing with his face toward me, and had just made a movement to approach my hiding place, when with a sudden impulse I seized a long shovel handle (which I had picked up early in the morning, for use as a walking stick), and lying flat on my stomach, brought it to bear on the man. My ruse was successful. He evidently took the harmless weapon for a rifle, and immediately disappeared in the fog, going up the creek.

This man, whoever he was, no doubt, thinks to this day, that some one took him for Granice, and that he ran a narrow risk of being shot—with a shovel handle. As I said before, he took up the creek, and I proceeded down, and about four o'clock I struck the railroad crossing seven or eight miles from Merced. Still keeping on the north side of the track, I proceeded toward that town, being careful to keep away from the roads.

After proceeding two or three miles, I concluded to get on the other side of the track; and with that object in view, tried to catch a view of the telegraph poles, in order to find the track; in a few minutes I discovered them. In order to change my position to the other side of the track, I would have to cross two roads, one on each side, which was a dangerous undertaking so near Merced, in the day time. But the fog gave me courage, and I started. I had just crossed over the track, meantime keeping my eyes on all sides of me, when I discovered a man riding along toward Merced. I immediately dropped flat, and he rode past, all unconscious of my near presence. This fellow, I should judge from his paraphernalia—consisting of six shooter, bowie knife and gun—was one of the brave crowd whom I encountered the preceding night at the Half-Way House. The horse was completely fagged out, and his rider was evidently returning to Merced for a fresh movement. I know you, sir; I saw you, but you did not me. After the outlines of horse and rider faded away in the foggy mist, I hurriedly walked about a half mile from the railroad, intending to lay in one of the many little hollows thereabouts and await the coming of dark.

It was now about half past four. Up to this time I had not had a drop of water, although I had hunted for it in creeks and "hog wallows." The cravings of appetite did not bother me much—my thirst was too keen. Arriving at the point just mentioned, I discovered a pool of muddy water, and getting on my hands and knees, I proceeded to slake my thirst. I took one swallow, and it burnt my throat like molten lead. It was alkali water, and the strongest I ever tasted. It was a bitter disappointment, but it was near night; I was but a few miles from town, and under the cover of darkness I could get water and maybe something to eat.

Night at last arrived, and under its sable folds I reached the