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 time.

The snow had disappeared as we returned ; spring was upon us, and the journey was very pleasant. Nearly every man carried a little captive Indian before him on his horse; most of them had Indian scalps clinging to their belts, and, dressed in furs and buckskins, cut in fantastic shapes for Indian wear, they were a strange and motley sight to look upon as they moved in single file through the deep, dark forests.

At the camp, after crossing the summit, with the McCloud and my Indian camp to the left, and Yreka in front, I determined to leave the command and seek my tawny friends at the base of Shasta.

I fancied I had made friends, and expected to have honourable mention from those who returned to the city. I do not know whether this was the case or not. Newspapers never reach an Indian camp, and I never entered Yreka again, save as an enemy, for more than a decade thereafter.

Sam Lockhart I never saw again. He was a brave man, prejudiced and reckless, but, I think, a good man at heart. He was killed in one of the hand-to- hand battles over the mines of Owyhee.

I made a little speech to the party, shook hands with about half of them, mounted my mule, and rode away alone in one direction, while they took another.

After about an hour s ride I heard some one calling after me. I turned round ; they called again, and I rode back. On nearing a