"Do you not see they have stopped at the turn of the darned track, Captain?" "Yes, Mose, I do." "You do not mean to give the thieving vagabonds, anything more?" "Certainly I do, Mose." He said this, grimly fingering his rifle in an ominous manner. "But--" "Well, Cap!" "Look here. Just leave the vagabond who showed us the agent's dirty hieroglyphic, to me." In another instant, yelling like demons, the Los dashed upon our line. By accident, it may be presumed, Captain Crim's rifle, with mine and a dozen others, were discharged; and in five minutes more not a living red-skin was to be seen, on either side or in front of us. In a country traversed by a road like this, pursuit was of course vain, although it was attempted. It ought, however, to be here stated that, until this occasion, I never knew what a capital shot our leader was. He was essentially a modest man. Nevertheless, his bullet had crushed through the skull of Lo, "the poor Indian," immediately above his left eye. Towards night we pitched our camp at the lower end of Honey Lake Valley, some three miles from the entrance of Susan River into the lake. Continuing from this spot for two days, towards the small town of Susanville, and fording the river with our horses, we turned them out to graze for the balance of the day. It was while seated under a large cottonwood tree, with four or five of the boys, watching our stock, that I nearly squared accounts with Rascall. No apparent remains of the mountain-fever forced me to rest in the wagon at the close of a day's ride, and having crossed the stream with them, while keeping a watch upon the horses, I was indulging in the first hour or two's free conversation I had with any of them, for some time. Suddenly, Brighton Bill, who had hitherto remained silent, looked up. "'Ow was hit, Mose?" "How was what?" I inquiringly demanded from him. "Why, 'ow was hit that villin Rascall didn't thrash you, as 'e did Pigeon, when 'e got hinto your wagon?" As I was relating a somewhat ludicrously-exaggerated account of the somersault performed by him, when he saw my six-shooter peeping out from beneath the covering blanket, Rascall, who had crept up behind the tree under whose branches we were sitting, roared out with savage vehemence: "You're a lying son of a ----" No sooner had the blackguardly epithet left his lips, than I was on my feet. My pistol was at once in my hand, and I fired. Fortunately for him, as I did so, Bill struck up my hand, and the ball passed over his head. The cowardly ruffian took to his heels, very much as if he fancied the devil himself was after him.