Across the Mexican Mountains 127 



from our camp, and as soon as dawn came search- 

 ing parties started in every direction, little know- 

 ing that Walsh was trotting towards us, behind a 

 Mexican, in the peculiar half run of that grade of 

 native, when in haste. 



David Hudson and I had struck far off to the 

 north, and had traversed table lands and mountain 

 paths for some miles, when just as we emerged from 

 a patch of oaks and undergrowth, all dead, thin, 

 dried, brown leaves in contrast with the full 

 summer bloom of everything outside this blighted 

 spot, we heard the tread of men, and quietly 

 moving behind two large trees near us, waited to 

 see who the newcomers were. We knew we had 

 heard the footsteps of more than one man, but 

 only the Mexican appeared at first; in a few sec- 

 onds with eyes like owls in daylight, mouth open, 

 hair streaming in every direction, and looking like 

 an escaped Bedlamite, came Walsh. He gripped 

 my hand so that it feels bruised yet; his first words 

 were: "Good fellow if he is a Greaser, have you 

 two dollars?" The Mexican told us he had left 

 the mine where he worked, to go to the rancho 

 where his sweetheart lived, and knowing the 

 country well, took a cross trail for speed and heard 

 a man making a great noise who seemed to want 

 something; he soon found him and knew at once 

 he belonged to our company whom he had seen 

 at Jesus Maria. 



