osened cords. The peaceful
vista, more suggestive of the offerings of nymph and shepherd than of
human sacrifice, was in a strange contrast to this whirlwind rush of
stern, armed men. The westering sun pierced the subdued light and the
tremor of leaves with yellow lances; birds started into song on blue and
dove-like wings, and on either side of the trail of this vengeful
storm could be heard the murmur of hidden and tranquil waters. In a
few moments they would be on the open ridge, whence sloped the common
turnpike to "Sawyer's," a mile away. It was the custom of returning
cavalcades to take this hill at headlong speed, with shouts and cries
that heralded their coming. They withheld the latter that day, as
inconsistent with their dignity; but, emerging from the wood, swept
silently like an avalanche down the slope. They were well under way,
looking only to their horses, when the second captive slipped his right
arm from the bonds and succeeded in grasping the reins that lay trailing
on the horse's neck. A sudden vaquero jerk, which the well-trained
animal understood, threw him on his haunches with his forelegs firmly
planted on the slope. The rest of the cavalcade swept on; the man who
was leading the captive's horse by the riata, thinking only of another
accident, dropped the line to save himself from being dragged backwards
from his horse. The captive wheeled, and the next moment was galloping
furiously up the slope.

It was the work of a moment; a trained horse and an experienced hand.
The cavalcade had covered nearly fifty yards before they could pull up;
the freed captive had covered half that distance uphill. The road was
so narrow that only two shots could be fired, and these broke dust two
yards ahead of the fugitive. They had not dared to fire low; the horse
was the more valuable animal. The fugitive knew this in his extremity
also, and would have gladly taken a shot in his own leg to spare that of
his horse. Five men were detached to recapture or kill him. The latter
seemed inevitable. But he had calculated his chances; before they could
reload he had reached the woods again; winding in and out between
the pillared tree trunks, he offered no mark. They knew his horse was
superior to their own; at the end of two hours they returned, for he
had disappeared without track or trail. The end was briefly told in the
"Sierra Record:"--

"Red Pete, the notorious horse-thief, who had so long eluded justice,
was captu