It must be remembered that we are here in a land of stage-drivers and highwaymen:  a land, in that sense, like England a hundred years ago.  The highway robber—­road-agent, he is quaintly called—­ is still busy in these parts.  The fame of Vasquez is still young.  Only a few years go, the Lakeport stage was robbed a mile or two from Calistoga.  In 1879, the dentist of Mendocino City, fifty miles away upon the coast, suddenly threw off the garments of his trade, like Grindoff, in The Miller and his Men, and flamed forth in his second dress as a captain of banditti.  A great robbery was followed by a long chase, a chase of days if not of weeks, among the intricate hill-country; and the chase was followed by much desultory fighting, in which several—­and the dentist, I believe, amongst the number—­bit the dust.  The grass was springing for the first time, nourished upon their blood, when I arrived in Calistoga.  I am reminded of another highwayman of that same year.  “He had been unwell,” so ran his humorous defence, “and the doctor told him to take something, so he took the express-box.”

The cultus of the stage-coachman always flourishes highest where there are thieves on the road, and where the guard travels armed, and the stage is not only a link between country and city, and the vehicle of news, but has a faint warfaring aroma, like a man who should be brother to a soldier.  California boasts her famous stage-drivers, and among the famous Foss is not forgotten.  Along the unfenced, abominable mountain roads, he launches his team with small regard to human life or the doctrine of probabilities.  Flinching travellers, who behold themselves coasting eternity at every corner, look with natural admiration at their driver’s huge, impassive, fleshy countenance.  He has the very face for the driver in Sam Weller’s anecdote, who upset the election party at the required point.  Wonderful tales are current of his readiness and skill.  One in particular, of how one of his horses fell at a ticklish passage of the road, and how Foss let slip the reins, and, driving over the fallen animal, arrived at the next stage with only three.  This I relate as I heard it, without guarantee.

I only saw Foss once, though, strange as it may sound, I have twice talked with him.  He lives out of Calistoga, at a ranche called Fossville.  One evening, after he was long gone home, I dropped into Cheeseborough’s, and was asked if I should like to speak with Mr. Foss.  Supposing that the interview was impossible, and that I was merely called upon to subscribe the general sentiment, I boldly answered “Yes.”  Next moment, I had one instrument at my ear, another at my mouth and found myself, with nothing in the world to say, conversing with a man several miles off among desolate hills.  Foss rapidly and somewhat plaintively brought the conversation to an end; and he returned to his night’s grog at Fossville, while I strolled forth again on Calistoga high street.  But it was an odd thing that here, on what we are accustomed to consider the very skirts of civilization, I should have used the telephone for the first time in my civilized career.  So it goes in these young countries; telephones, and telegraphs, and newspapers, and advertisements running far ahead among the Indians and the grizzly bears.