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 your way such a night as this.  It is ten good miles from here; you have several bridges to cross —­you had better stop at the first house you come to, about half a mile ahead.  I am going to strike camp myself.”

I thanked my adviser, and went on, hearing the sound of the tinkling bells, but unable to see any thing.  In a little while I saw a light ahead, and was glad to see it.  Driving up in front and halting, I repeated the traveler’s “halloo” several times, and at last got a response in a hoarse, gruff voice.

“I am belated on my way to Stockton, and am cold, and tired, and hungry.  Can I get shelter with you for the night?”

“You may try it, if you want to,” answered the unmusical voice abruptly.

In a few moments a man appeared to take the horse, and taking my satchel in hand, I went into the house.  The first thing that struck my attention on entering the room was a big log-fire, which I was glad to see, for I was wet and very cold.  Taking a chair in the corner, I looked around.  The scene that presented itself was not reassuring.  The main feature of the room was a bar, with an ample supply of barrels, demijohns, bottles, tumblers, and all the et ceteras.  Behind the counter stood the proprietor, a burly fellow with a buffalo-neck, fair skin and blue eyes, with a frightful scar across his left under-jaw and neck;