March 12th. We are camped in the loveliest spot you ever saw. A little mountain stream runs rapidly down on one side of us, the mountains on another, the wagon road on another, and on the other the valley stretches miles and miles away in the direction where lies our road. The ground (Cocomonga Ranch) belongs to a Mexican who owns a tract of land nine miles square, over fifty thousand acres. One hundred and seventy of it is planted in a vineyard. All of this work is done by Indians, civilized, of course. Anson brought one boy down to see me, or rather for me to see him. They jabbered away in Mexican together at a great rate. Anson can speak a good deal of Spanish, carried on a conversation very well, and is fast relearning what he had forgotten of it. I forgot to tell you that we saw flying fish and porpoises while we were coming down on the steamship. Last night Anson and I climbed a mountain, and a mighty steep one it was, but we were rewarded when we reached the summit by a most lovely view on all sides. I think the mountain is probably an extinct volcano, as something like lava was all over it. It also had quantities of wild flowers on it. The nearer you get to the Indians the less you hear of them. There are no wild Indians this side of the Colorado River, and very few tame ones. It is perfectly safe to travel alone as far as the Colorado River, which is almost half of our journey; after that, an escort is necessary, although the mail coach travels almost all the way with no escort at all. You need have no fears for us, as even if they do not furnish a regular escort in the Indian country, there are enough of us to do without, as there are thirty men in the party. By the time you get this we will probably be at Date Creek, where we stop for a while on that court.