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“ [21] English miners in that range, some Portuguese whalers in that bay; but you will see no Mexicans, either red or mixed, engaged in hardy work and daring deed.”

“ Bad roads down here” ? “ we ask, on gathering up the reins.”

“Bad roads! Ah, never mind, Sefior. Go on --you'll find them worse-good bye!”

Tearing through scrub and grass, we rattle down the slope in search of a ford; now startling a hawk-owl from his perch, anon drawing up to bang at snipe or teal. We reach the stream that ought to be the Kishon, here a broad and shallow river, rippling over beds of sand, and whispering to an angler of abundant trout. When Capitan Carlos was a buck of sixty, Rio Carmelo fed the mission and the tribe; but now no line is dropped into the flood for trout, no snare is drawn across the ford for duck. All nature at Carmelo runs to waste.

Crossing the ford and climbing up the slopes towards Monte Carmelo, we crash our way through trough and tangle, swarm up ridge and rock, each moment getting deeper in the wood and higher on the range, until we catch, some height above our

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Capitan Carlos (1)
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