the favorite of a Chinese Nero, but with my life! And I

driving into Rains's camp a squadron of Nesmith's battalion of Oregon

volunteers that we had mistaken for Indians, and who in turn believed

us to be the enemy. When camp was reached, we all indulged in a

hearty laugh ovor the affair, and at the fright each party had given

the other. The explanations which ensued proved that the squadron of

volunteers had separated from the column at the same time that I had

when we debouched from the canon, and had pursued an intermediate

trail through the hills, which brought it into the valley of the