The pickets on the banks above were calling, "Three o'clock and all's well," as Job crept silently down the canyon and made for the heavy timber of the mountain opposite. * * * * * The bugle had just sounded "taps" at Camp Sheridan, on the flat between the South Fork and the Yosemite Fall road, one mile east of Wawona. The southern hills had echoed back its sweet, lingering notes. The blue-coats had turned in. The officer of the guard was inspecting the sentries, when the guard on Post Number Four saw a haggard, white-faced young fellow, with hat gone, clothes torn, hands bleeding from scratches, pull himself up the bank of the creek, and at the sentry's "Halt!" look up with anxious appeal and ask for the captain. That instinct which is sometimes quicker than thought told the guard this was no ordinary case. In two minutes the corporal was escorting Job to the headquarters tent. What a dilapidated object he was! For twenty long hours he had been working his way over the rear of Pine Mountain, down the steep sides of the Gulch, up that terrible jungle which even the red man avoids, over the great boulders and falls of the South Fork, and up the long miles through the primeval wilderness to where he knew the white tents of Camp Sheridan lay. The captain could hardly believe Job's story. The officers marveled at the heroism of the boy. But he told it all without consciousness of self, begged them for God's sake to lose no time, and fell over limp and faint at the captain's feet. When he came to, it was dawn, the troops were in the saddle, and the sergeant was reading this telegram: "Proceed at once to the Yellow Jacket Mine and quell the riot and disorder. LAMONT." The horses were pawing the ground, the quartermaster was hurrying to and fro, the captain was buckling on his saber, and Job was lying on a cot in the surgeon's tent, while that good man was feeling his pulse. Quick as he could, Job started up. "Are they off?" he cried. "Yes, my boy; and you lie still. They'll settle those fellows over at the mine," was the reply. "But, doctor, I must go! I promised Rooney! Let me go!" "No, young man. You're plucky, but pluck won't do any more. A day or two here will fix you all right. Your pulse has been up to a hundred and four. You can't stir to-day." Job was desperate. The bugle was sounding, the officers were shouting orders. Through the door of the tent and the grove of trees he could see troops forming. "Send for the captain, doctor, please," he pleaded. The captain came, heard Job's story, and shook his head. Job was half frantic. What would Pat Rooney say? He begged the doctor with tears in his eyes. He beseeched the captain. At last they yielded. But how could he cross the line in the daytime? They would have to wait till night. Finally the captain said he would wait and send Job with a scout at dusk, and follow with the troops at midnight.