in my hands,
but in the hands of a deputy."

During all this time I said nothing although I thought a great deal.
Hathaway drove, according to Meany's orders, toward the Half-Way
House. It struck me, as well as the deputy sheriff and also Hathaway
(as I afterwards learned from their conversation), that the mob was
lying in wait at the bridge, at the crossing of Bear Creek. I kept a
sharp look-out ahead, and in a few minutes the Bear Creek bridge
loomed up through the fog, about one hundred yards ahead. I kept a
steady eye on the structure as we drew near, expecting every second to
see the forms of the devils.

At last the bridge was reached and crossed, and that which I most
dreaded and feared--the crossing of Bear Creek bridge--was passed in
safety. While crossing the bridge, I looked behind and perceived eight
men about one hundred yards behind, on foot, approaching the bridge.

The programme was not laid down quite right. They were about one
minute behind time, thanks to John Hathaway's rapid driving, who, of
course, together with the deputy sheriff, knew nothing of the little
arrangement to get me on the road. But they strongly suspected, as I
learned from a word that I caught from their whispered conversation.
After crossing the bridge, Hathaway whipped up his horses, and we
started off at a rapid pace for the Half-Way House. I heard Deputy
Sheriff Breen remark to Hathaway:

"John, its strange Meany didn't tell us to keep right on to Modesto,
instead of stopping so near town. But I have got to follow
instructions. If the mob comes, I'll turn Harry loose, d----d if I
don't, if there is no other recourse."

I then spoke up and said: "Well, Mr. Breen, if you do, and I am alive,
you will find me in the Modesto jail inside of a week."

He then remarked: "Oh, they may not come."

The above remark was the only one I passed from the time of leaving
the lock-up till I arrived at the Half-Way House, as I was deeply
engaged in thought, trying to arrive at some plan to outwit the mob,
whom I felt certain would be on my tracks ere long, if they were not
so already. It was half-past seven or eight o'clock when we arrived at
the Half-Way House, six miles north of Merced. I was led into the
house, securely handcuffed. The horses were taken out of their traces;
then supper was ordered. We sat down to the table and eat our supper.
After finishing my repast, I was conducted to a room and put to bed
with the hand-cuffs on. I