eat, there was a silence that was almost
painful for a few moments. Then the pent-up emotion of the men broke
forth in sobs that shook their strong frames. Dr. Lucky, the prisoner's
friend, made a brief, tearful prayer, and then the benediction was said,
and the service was at an end. The men sat still in their seats. As we
filed out, of the chapel, many hands were extended to grasp mine,
holding it with a clinging pressure. I passed out bearing with me the
impression of an hour I can never forget; and the images of those
thousand faces are still painted in memory.

"Corralled."

"So you were corralled last night?"

This was the remark of a friend whom I met in the streets of Stockton
the morning after my adventure. I knew what the expression meant as
applied to cattle, but I had never heard it before in reference to a
human being. Yes, I had been corralled; and this is how it happened:

It was in the old days, before there were any railroads in California.
With a wiry, clean-limbed pinto horse, I undertook to drive from
Sacramento City to Stockton one day. It was in the winter season, and
the clouds were sweeping up from the south-west, the snow-crested
Sierras hidden from sight by dense masses of vapor boiling at their
bases and massed against their sides. The roads were heavy from the
effects of previous rains, and the plucky little pinto sweated as he
pulled through the long stretches of black adobe mud. A cold wind struck
me in the face, and the ride was a dreary one from the start. But I
pushed on confidently, having faith in the spotted mustang, despite the
evident fact that he had lost no little of the spirit with which he
dashed out of town at starting. When a genuine mustang flags, it is a
serious business. The hardiness and endurance of this breed of horses
almost exceed belief.

Toward night a cold rain began to fall, driving in my face with the
headwind. Still many a long mile lay between me and Stockton. Dark came
on, and it was dark indeed. The outline of the horse I was driving could
not be seen, and the flat country through which I was driving was a
great black sea of night. I trusted to the instinct of the horse, and
moved on. The bells of a wagon-team meeting me fell upon my ear. I
called out,

"Halloo there!"

"What's the matter?" answered a heavy voice through the darkness.

"Am I in the road to Stockton, and can I get there tonight?"

"You are in the road, but you will never find you