Just as I reached my hotel, filled with these disturbing thoughts, a friend asked me to go with him to a business office. I sat down in the reception room, while my friend disappeared in a rear office. I could hear the sound of voices and the clink of gold. Presently my friend reappeared, carrying a small coin sack. “Harpending,” he said, “you are certain to be arrested on some sort of an accusation. The Yankees will never let you stay at large. There are fifteen of us who have subscribed a hundred dollars each. Here is the money. We will also provide you a good horse and necessary equipment. You must leave to-night.” I asked the privilege of meeting my friends and was accorded the privilege. Several were not overburdened financially, and $1,500 was more than I could reasonably need. I selected the three richest, gave each of them my promissory note for $100, and returned the other contributions. We talked more or less of plans. I was advised to ride south to the neighborhood of Santa Cruz, across the mountains to the plains, and journey thence through the San Joaquin Valley to what was then known generally as the “Tulares,” where such inhabitants as there were came mostly from the South and where, more important still, the law writs did not run. So, shortly after dark, I made my preparations and proceeded to put as many miles between myself and San Francisco as the means of travel would permit. I turned down the horseback proposition, slipped on a southbound train in the evening and before midnight reached its terminus, San Jose. CHAPTER XIII. HITS FOR THE HILLS IN EFFORT TO LOSE PURSUERS, PASSES ONE GOOD THING AND STUMBLES INTO A BONANZA. _Company of Soldiers Goes to Arrest Him; Is Taken Into Camp and Very Soon After Everything Is Fine._ I stayed overnight at San Jose at the house of a friend, a stanch Southern sympathizer, who had been advised by wire that he might expect a guest by the late train. The next morning bright and early I left with a companion and a stout team for Santa Cruz. On the outskirts of that town--pardon me, city--my companion left me late in the afternoon, directing me to a house of accommodation kept by a man I knew, of strong “secesh” proclivities. I passed into the waiting room, where a number of men were standing. The proprietor received me with evident agitation and invited me to a room upstairs. “Mr. Harpending,” he said, “the sheriff has received a telegram from the United States Marshal to detain you if you pass this way. He will hear of the arrival of a stranger, answering your description, as a number saw you enter my house. But”--and here he ripped out an awful oath, none of your feeble modern profanity--“I will send for some of the boys and we will have one devil of a fight before he takes you.”