I gave him the name of my hotel and the number of my room, which data being duly noted, we bade each other good-day. To tell the truth, I was badly rattled. Nothing seemed more certain than that I was doomed to incarceration on a new charge, and, having enjoyed the public hospitality for almost a year, I had no stomach for any more.
THE AUTHOR’S MOTHER
Mrs. A. Harpending Sr., an ardent Southern sympathizer
Just as I reached my hotel, filled with these disturbing thoughts, a friend asked me to go with him to a business office. I sat down in the reception room, while my friend disappeared in a rear office. I could hear the sound of voices and the clink of gold. Presently my friend reappeared, carrying a small coin sack. “Harpending,” he said, “you are certain to be arrested on some sort of an accusation. The Yankees will never let you stay at large. There are fifteen of us who have subscribed a hundred dollars each. Here is the money. We will also provide you a good horse and necessary equipment. You must leave to-night.”
I asked the privilege of meeting my friends and was accorded the privilege. Several were not overburdened financially, and $1,500 was more than I could reasonably need. I selected the three richest, gave each of them my promissory note for $100, and returned the other contributions. We talked more or less of plans. I was advised to ride south to the neighborhood of Santa Cruz, across the mountains to the plains, and journey thence through the San Joaquin Valley to what was then known generally as the “Tulares,” where such inhabitants as there were came mostly from the South and where, more important still, the law writs did not run.
So, shortly after dark, I made my preparations and proceeded to put as many miles between myself and San Francisco as the means of travel would permit. I turned down the horseback proposition, slipped on a southbound train in the evening and before midnight reached its terminus, San Jose.