The impulse to serve this unfortunate man was irresistible. I could not leave him thus. It was no idle curiosity that prompted me to probe the mystery of his conduct.
"In heaven's name, friend, why do you stay with these bad men? What unholy power have they over you? Leave them, I implore you—leave them at once and forever. Come with me. I will do all I can for you. Surely you are not too far gone in crime for repentance. The vilest sinner may be saved!"
The poor fellow's frame was convulsed with agony. He sobbed like a child, and for a moment seemed unable to speak. Suddenly, as if recollecting himself, he said,
"No, sir, I can not turn traitor. It is no use—I am gone beyond redemption. Their fate must be mine. God pity me! I struggled hard against the evil spirit, but he has conquered. I am gone, sir—gone! Yet, believe me, I am not wholly depraved—a criminal in the eyes of the law; a robber; an outcast from society and civilization; but (here he lowered his voice to a whisper)—but not a murderer. Oh God, pity me! My mother—my poor old mother!"
This was all. The next moment he turned away, and was lost in the gloom of the trees.
CHAPTER VI.
A LONELY RIDE.
As I struck into the trail and out into the broad valley of the Salinas a sense of freedom relieved me in some degree of the gloom inspired by the last words of this strangely unfortunate man. The stars were shining brightly overhead, but the moon had gone down some time previously. It was just light enough to see the way. A small white object lying in the trail caused the mule to start. In the excitement of my escape I had forgotten about the papers. Here they were, all safe. I had no doubt they had been thus disposed of by the ruffian Jack during the previous evening when he took occasion to absent himself from the camp. I quickly dismounted and placed the package securely in the leg of one of my boots, then pushed on with all speed to reach a turning-point of the mountains some distance ahead, in order to be out of sight by the dawn of day, which could not be far off. In about an hour I had gained this point, and at the same time the first faint streaks of the coming day began to appear in the eastern sky. The air was peculiarly balmy—cool enough to be pleasant, and deliciously odorous with the herbage of the mountains. Already the deer began to leave their coverts among the shrubbery on the hill-sides, and numerous bands of them stood gazing at me as I passed, their antlers erect, their beautiful forms motionless, as if hewn from the solid rock, but manifesting more curiosity than fear. Thousands of rabbits frisked about in the open glades, and innumerable flocks of quail flitted from bush to bush. The field-larks and doves made the air musical with their joyous hymns of praise to the rising sun; the busy hum of bees rose among the wild flowers by the wayside; all nature seemed to awake from its repose smiling with a celestial joy. In no other country upon earth have I seen such mornings as in the interior of California—so clear, bright, and sparkling—so rich and glowing in atmospheric tints—so teeming with unbounded opulence in all that gives vigor, health, and beauty to animated nature, and inspiration to the higher faculties of man. There is a redundancy of richness in the earth, air, and light unknown even in that land of fascination which is said to possess "the fatal gift of beauty."