Early in the ride we received concrete proof of how desperate was the situation.  To the right of us we heard cries and rifle-shots.  Bullets whistled dangerously near.  There was a crashing in the underbrush; then a magnificent black truck-horse broke across the road in front of us and was gone.  We had barely time to notice that he was bleeding and lame.  He was followed by three soldiers.  The chase went on among the trees on the left.  We could hear the soldiers calling to one another.  A fourth soldier limped out upon the road from the right, sat down on a boulder, and mopped the sweat from his face.

“Militia,” Dakon whispered.  “Deserters.”

The man grinned up at us and asked for a match.  In reply to Dakon’s “What’s the word?” he informed us that the militiamen were deserting.  “No grub,” he explained.  “They’re feedin’ it all to the regulars.”  We also learned from him that the military prisoners had been released from Alcatraz Island because they could no longer be fed.

I shall never forget the next sight we encountered.  We came upon it abruptly around a turn of the road.  Overhead arched the trees.  The sunshine was filtering down through the branches.  Butterflies were fluttering by, and from the fields came the song of larks.  And there it stood, a powerful touring car.  About it and in it lay a number of corpses.  It told its own tale.  Its occupants, fleeing from the city, had been attacked and dragged down by a gang of slum dwellers—­hoodlums.  The thing had occurred within twenty-four hours.  Freshly opened meat and fruit tins explained the reason for the attack.  Dakon examined the bodies.

“I thought so,” he reported.  “I’ve ridden in that car.  It was Perriton—­the whole family.  We’ve got to watch out for ourselves from now on.”

“But we have no food with which to invite attack,” I objected.

Dakon pointed to the horse I rode, and I understood.

Early in the day Dakon’s horse had cast a shoe.  The delicate hoof had split, and by noon the animal was limping.  Dakon refused to ride it farther, and refused to desert it.  So, on his solicitation, we went on.  He would lead the horse and join us at my place.  That was the last we saw of him; nor did we ever learn his end.

By one o’clock we arrived at the town of Menlo, or, rather, at the site of Menlo, for it was in ruins.  Corpses lay everywhere.  The business part of the town, as well as part of the residences, had been gutted by fire.  Here and there a residence still held out; but there was no getting near them.  When we approached too closely we were fired upon.  We met a woman who was poking about in the smoking ruins of her cottage.  The first attack, she told us had been on the stores, and as she talked we could picture that raging, roaring, hungry mob flinging itself on the handful of townspeople.  Millionaires and paupers had fought side by side for the food, and then fought with one another after they got it.  The town of Palo Alto and Stanford University had been sacked in similar fashion, we learned.  Ahead of us lay a desolate, wasted land; and we thought we were wise in turning off to my place.  It lay three miles to the west, snuggling among the first rolling swells of the foothills.