Whoever has travelled on the West Coast has not failed to notice the fearful volleys of oaths which the oxen-drivers hurl at their teams, but for ingenious flights of fancy profanity I have never met the equal of my host. With the most perfect good-nature and in unmoved continuance he uttered florid blasphemies, which, I think, must have taken hours to invent. I was glad, when bedtime came, to be relieved of his presence, and especially pleased when he took me to the little separate building in which was a narrow, single bed. Next this building on the left was the cook-house and dining-room, and upon the right lay his own sleeping apartment. Directly across the square, and not more than sixty feet off, was the gate of the corral, which creaked on its rusty hinges, when moved, in the most dismal manner.
As I lay upon my bed I could hear Kaweah occasionally stamp; the snoring of the Chinaman on one side, and the low, mumbled conversation of my host and his squaw on the other. I felt no inclination to sleep, but lay there in half-doze, quite conscious, yet withdrawn from the present.
I think it must have been about eleven o’clock when I heard the clatter of a couple of horsemen, who galloped up to my host’s building and sprang to the ground, their Spanish spurs ringing on the stone. I sat up in bed, grasped my pistol, and listened. The peach-tree next my window rustled. The horses moved about so restlessly that I heard but little of the conversation, but that little I found of personal interest to myself.
I give as nearly as I can remember the fragments of dialogue between my host and the man whom I recognized as the older of my two robbers.
“When did he come?”
“Wall, the sun might have been about four hours.”
“Has his horse give out?”
I failed to hear the answer, but was tempted to shout out “No!”
“Gray coat, buckskin breeches.” (My dress.)
“Going to Mariposa at seven in the morning.”