"They would
stampede the horses at once. No Mexican would brave death here,"
muses Valois.
Only a boy of twenty, he is a veteran already. He feels for his
revolver and knife. He knows he can defy any sneaking Californian.
"It must be some beast," he concludes, as he stumbles along the
wind-swept path. Maxime Valois dreams of his far-away home on the
"Lower Coast," near New Orleans. He wanders along, half asleep.
This hillside is no magnolia grove.
It is but a year since he joined the great "Pathfinder's" third
voyage over the lonely American Desert. He has toiled across to
the Great Salt Lake, down the dreary Humboldt, and over the snowy
Sierras.
Down by Walker's Lake the "pathfinders" have crept into the valley
of California. As he shields his face from biting winds, he can see
again the panorama of the great plains, billowy hills, and broad
vistas, tantalizing in their deceptive nearness. Thundering herds
of buffalo and all the wild chivalry of the Sioux and Cheyennes
sweep before him. The majestic forests of the West have darkened
his way. The Great Salt Lake, a lonely inland sea; Lake Tahoe, a
beautiful jewel set in snowy mountains; and its fairy sisters near
Truckee--all these pass before his mental vision.
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