where men were
drilling. At more or less regular intervals one saw them marching down
Montgomery street, brave in their new uniforms, running a gauntlet of
bunting, flags and cheers. Then they passed from one's ken. Each
fortnight the San Francisco papers published a column of Deaths and
Casualties.

In due time a letter came from Herbert Waters, now a sergeant of his
troop. Benito promptly closed his office for the afternoon and ran home
with it; he read the missive, while Alice, Robert and Po Lun listened,
eager-eyed and silent:

"We have marched over historic ground, the trail of d'Anza, which
Benito's forefathers broke in 1774. They say it is the hardest march
that volunteer troops ever made and I can well believe it. There are no
railroads; it was almost like exploring. Sometimes water holes are
ninety miles apart. The desert is so hot that you in temperate San
Francisco can't imagine it unless you think of Hell; and in the
mountains we found snow up to our waists; were nearly frozen.

"Apaches, Yumas, Navajos abound; they are cruel, treacherous fighters.
We had some lively skirmishes with them. I received a poisoned arrow in
my arm. But I sucked the wound and very soon, to everyone's surprise, it
healed. There comes to me oft-times a strange conceit that I cannot be
killed or even badly hurt ... until I have met Terry."

There was a postscript written on a later date, proceeding from Fort
Davis, Texas. Though the handwriting was less firm than the foregoing,
there was a jubilance about the closing lines which even the Chinese
felt. His eyes glowed with a battle spirit as Benito read:

"My prayer has been answered. At least in part. I have met and fought
with Broderick's assassin. It was in the battle for Fort Davis, which we
wrested from the enemy, that he loomed suddenly before me, a great hulk
of a man in a captain's uniform swinging his sword like a demon. I saw
one of our men go down before him and then the battle press brought us
together. It seemed almost like destiny. His sword was red and dripping,
his horse was covered with foam. He looked at me with eyes that were
insane--mad with the lust of killing; tried to plunge the blade into my
neck. But I caught his wrist and held it. I shouted at him, for the
noise was hideous, 'David Terry, I am Broderick's friend.' He went white
at that. I let his wrist go and drew my own saber. I struck at him and
the sparks flew from his countering weapon. My heart was