Before the grass had taken root upon the graves, the ground was again broken, and another victim of the malignant feud was hidden from the sight of friends and foes. The fires of hate still smouldered, and within a year another of the Coates family was put _hors du combat_, while going one night from the village to his ranch. He was seen leaving for home on horseback at nine o’clock, but about ten his horse ran masterless into the farm-yard. The man was found lying by the roadside dead, a bullet having passed through his head. Suspicion reverted to the Frost family, but no proof could be brought to establish their guilt. The public finger still points toward them, however, and doubtless will continue so to do for many a day, or until the mystery is cleared up. [Illustration] A TRIP TO THE INTERIOR. A flying trip into the interior has not favorably impressed me. There were too many mosquitoes—too many graybacks. It is too far from civilization, and too nigh the sun. I stopped over night in a small city, and the first thing that attracted my attention on entering the place was the pale and sickly look of the inhabitants. This I attributed to the fever and ague, the hot weather, and impure river water which they drink. I was credibly informed by several parties that their pallor was owing to the quantity of blood that is nightly extracted from their veins by the mosquitoes. From the number of these pests infesting the place, it has taken the name of “The Mosquito City.” Those people who cannot indulge in such a luxury as mosquito bars, have to sleep during the day. They sit up nights and wage war against their ferocious enemies with tobacco smoke, burning leather, wet towels, or any other weapon to which they can conveniently resort. [Illustration: A MOSQUITO ON THE SCENT.] To be stung by a black hornet or a scorpion is bad; to be bitten by a tarantula or rattlesnake is worse; but to be punctured to the bone by the bugle of one of these mosquitoes is terrible. They are enormous insects. When flying through the air they are as discernible as thistle-down, or even humming birds. The sharp tube through which they sap their victim’s blood is fully three-quarters of an inch long, and resembles a cambric needle; this they steadily and unhesitatingly press into the flesh until they either strike a bone, or their forehead prevents them from doing deeper injury. Towards evening they rise with pining maws from the low, damp land around the city— “Innumerable as the blades of green, That carpet the vale of the San Joaquin;”