They cross the San Joaquin on a raft, swimming their horses. Valois
sees nothing yet to hint his impending fate. Far away the rich
green billows of spring grass wave in the warm sun. Thousands of
elk wander in antlered armies over the meadows. Gay dancing yellow
antelope bound over the elastic turf. Clouds of wild fowl, from the
stately swan to the little flighty snipe, crowd the tule marshes
of this silent river. It is the hunter's paradise. Wild cattle, in
sleek condition, toss their heads and point their long, polished
horns. Mustangs, fleet as the winds, bound along, disdaining
their meaner brethren, bowing under man's yoke. At the occasional
mud-walled ranches, vast flocks of fat sheep whiten the hills.
Maxime mentally maps the route he travels. Alas! no chance of
escape exists. At the first open attempt a rifle-ball, or a blow
from a razor-edged machete, would end his earthly wanderings.
Despised, shunned by even the wretched women at the squalid ranchos,
he feels utterly alone. The half-naked children timidly flee from
him. The wicked eyes of his guards never leave him. He knows a
feeling animates the squad, that he would be well off their hands
by a use of the first handy limb and a knotted lariat.
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