This is grave news.
Donna Juanita and the padre try to smooth the gloomy brow of Don
Miguel. All in vain. The "pernicious foreigner" is once more on the
shores of Alta California. The Mexican eagle flutters listlessly
over the sea gates of the great West. The serpent coils of foreign
conspiracy are twining around it.
CHAPTER III.
A MISSING SENTINEL.---FREMONT'S CAMP.
"Quien Vive!" A sentinel's challenge rings out. The sounds are
borne away on the night wind sweeping Gavilan Peak. No response.
March breezes drive the salty fog from Monterey Bay into the eyes
of the soldier shivering in the silent hours before dawn.
"Only a coyote or a mountain wolf," mutters Maxime Valois.
He resumes his tramp along the rocky ramparts of the Californian
Coast Range. His eyes are strained to pierce the night. He waits,
his finger on the trigger of his Kentucky rifle.
Surely something was creeping toward him from the chaparral. No:
another illusion. Pride keeps him from calling for help. Three-score
dauntless "pathfinders" are sleeping here around intrepid Fremont.
It is early March in 1846. Over in the valley the herd-guard watch
the animals. "No, not an Indian," mutters the sentinel.
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