Horace Bell
1930
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NOTE |
Horace Bell (1830-1918) was a California lawyer, journalist, publisher, and writer. He published a memoir in 1881 and the screenwriter Lanier Bartlett assembled a second, posthumous memoir from his unpublished papers, On the Old West, which was published in 1930. The book’s nineteenth chapter launched the modern cryptozoology claim that pterodactyls still fly the western skies. In this chapter, Bell relates local stories he supposedly encountered firsthand about flying reptiles, and he included what he claimed were articles from Arizona and California newspapers documenting the sightings. The articles are real, though unrelated, with the most important, the Tucson Epitaph piece, running on April 26, 1890 under the headline “Found on the Desert: A Strange Winged Monster Discovered and Killed on the Huachuca Desert.” It was almost certainly a hoax. (Bell, however, made some minor transcription errors.) Bell’s chapter, however, led Jack Pearl to write about the supposed pterodactyl sighting for the men’s magazine Saga in 1963, adding the improbable claim that a photograph of the dead pterosaur existed. H. M. Cramer then claimed in the pages of FATE a few months later to have seen the same photo. From there, the story became a regular part of the cryptozoology and pseudohistory circuit, appearing in magazines, books, and documentaries and inspiring a wave of later sightings. Several fake photos appeared, including the one below, which was created in 2000 for the website of the short-lived Fox-TV paranormal comedy-drama FreakyLinks and quickly mistaken for the genuine article. (A second, less convincing fake was created for the TV show itself and used on-screen.) Bell’s original account, with its collection of newspaper clippings, is reproduced here in its entirety for the first time online.
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CHAPTER 19
Spit in the Mouth of Hell
I had often wondered over the possible origin of a perfectly graded but utterly abandoned turnpike road extending in a straight line from where the Soledad Pass opens onto the Mojave Desert to Elizabeth Lake, fifteen miles to the westward. In places the drifting sands of the desert have obliterated the mysterious road but where the earth is hard and flinty and the sand cannot take hold it shows as plainly as it did over one hundred years ago when it was cut, filled, graded and smoothed by the Devil himself. For El Demonio, I finally learned on most excellent authority, was the builder.
In explanation of how I came by this astonishing revelation let me say that some years ago I edited “The Spiritual Conquest of California” from the manuscript of Don Guillermo Embustero y Mentiroso, and the publication of this document was the cause of much interest among historians and students of Catholic history. The manuscript was placed in my hands by a lineal descendant of Don Guillermo Embustero now residing in Los Angeles and known as a man of scientific distinction.
Considerably later I was in conversation with this Don Guillermo of the fourth generation and referred to the milagro [miracle] of the desert’s border. He surprised me with the reply: “There is no need to wonder about it. Did I not give you a manuscript of my ancestor relating the true history of the Devil’s Turnpike?”
I replied in the negative and he promised to bring me the document. He fulfilled his promise, and here is a translation from the old Spaniard’s yellow pages:
In explanation of how I came by this astonishing revelation let me say that some years ago I edited “The Spiritual Conquest of California” from the manuscript of Don Guillermo Embustero y Mentiroso, and the publication of this document was the cause of much interest among historians and students of Catholic history. The manuscript was placed in my hands by a lineal descendant of Don Guillermo Embustero now residing in Los Angeles and known as a man of scientific distinction.
Considerably later I was in conversation with this Don Guillermo of the fourth generation and referred to the milagro [miracle] of the desert’s border. He surprised me with the reply: “There is no need to wonder about it. Did I not give you a manuscript of my ancestor relating the true history of the Devil’s Turnpike?”
I replied in the negative and he promised to bring me the document. He fulfilled his promise, and here is a translation from the old Spaniard’s yellow pages:
In the year of Our Lord 1780 and in the tenth month thereof the Holy Father and President of all the Missions of California, the illustrious and Most Reverend Junipero Serra, with an escort of dragoons under command of the valiant veteran, the Sergeant Arguello, engaged in an expedition of discovery to the great valleys of the north. On his return journey he was pursued, attacked, harassed and finally surrounded by hostile savages and besieged at a point that was afterward called La Laguna del Diablo.
The beleaguered Spaniards were reduced to most direful distress but happily an Indian neophyte escaped through the besiegers with a message to the commandant of the guard at San Gabriél. The latter at once despatched the valorous Lieutenant Pico with every soldier that could be spared to the rescue of the Christians. The brave lieutenant and his mando [command] pushed forward in hot haste but most unfortunately became lost in las soledades [The solitudes] of the desert. For three days and three nights they wandered in search of the forlorn Christians, their countrymen. On the eve of the fourth day the distracted Pico, suffering from hunger and thirst, found himself back again at the site of the camp he and his companions had made three days previously, that is, at the mouth of the Cañon or Pass of Soledad, that gives out onto the boundless desert.
The horses were utterly worn out, the troopers famished for food and drink. The sun had set and darkness was casting its mantle of charity over the despairing warriors when the frantic Pico raised his eyes, crossed himself desperately and said, “Ay, Diablo, what would I give for a good road direct to the camp of the besieged Christians, my countrymen! I would not only give my soul but I would pledge the soul of all my kith and kin for generations to come!”
“°Tis a bargain!’ A demon stood before the desperate Pico. But the lieutenant of San Gabriél Arcangel feared nor man nor devil nor chimera dire. He always backed up his word, and with a gesture of accord he replied promptly to the demon, “’Tis a bargain!”
Immediately a legion of demons bearing picks, spades, axes, hammers, prying bars and torches appeared upon the scene.
“Go!” said the Devil (for the first demon proved to be no other than EK] Demonio himself) and the division with axes cleared a way through the brush,
“Go!” said the Devil, and the ground was leveled and graded by the pick and spade demons.
“Go!” said the Devil, and the demons with iron bars pried out the great rocks.
“Go!” said the Devil, and the huge stones were beaten into pebbles by the hammer division.
“Go!” said the Devil, and the spade demons returned to work, spreading the pebbles and pounding them down into a hard surface as the torch bearers reddened the encroaching night with their flares. Magically a broad finished road began to stretch straight into the west.
“Ready?” asked the Devil, bowing to the undaunted Lieutenant Pico.
“Ready!” responded the brave lieutenant.
“Go!” said the Devil.
“Forward Fours! Trot! Gallop! Charge!” shouted the officer, driving the spurs into his horse’s flanks and dashing along at the swift heels of the Devil whose whole legion of demons swarmed on ahead creating the road with demoniac magic as they flew along, the brush cutters followed by the imps with picks, who were followed by the spade wielders and they by the division with iron bars and they by the rock pounders and they by the smoothers, the whole fiendish horde led by the bearers of sulphurous torches. On rushed _the infernal road builders with terrible swiftness and on
followed the Chief Demon with the Lieutenant Pico at his heels and at his heels in turn the loyal troopers whose valor and discipline would have caused them to follow their commander into the fires of Hell.
“Level that hill!” shouted the Devil as Pico, thinking to evade his bargain at this point, now that he knew the right direction, circled away around a hill that stood in the way. The demon legion leveled the hill in a twinkling and suddenly there seemed to be no other way except straight through the cut they had made.
“A'bargain’s a bargain!” laughed the Devil. ‘Follow the road, my good lieutenant!”
On they dashed with the road still unrolling magically before them.
“A fraction of a league more and my contract is fulfilled,” coolly remarked the Devil to the breathless Pico.
“I shall arrive at the end of the road but you shall not!” cried Pico, making a thrust at the Devil with his Knights Templars sword. The point of the sword proved harmless to the Arch Fiend and the latter grinned defiantly. But he paled as his flaming eyes rested on the hilt of that sword.
Quickly the lieutenant, who was both learned and pious and knew of those instances in history when the sight of the Cross has sent the Devil slinking back into Hell, held aloft the silver hilt. “Behold the Cross of Christ!” he pronounced.
The Devil trembled in mute despair. The legion of demon road builders ceased their labors and shrank into the shadows as they gazed on the symbol of Redemption glittering in the sulphurous glare of their hellish torches.
“Out of the way!” commanded the brave Christian Spaniard. Holding the hilt of his Knights Templars sword always towards the Arch Fiend the officer ordered his troops forward while he himself covered their rear. The demoniac road crew broke and fled, the Devil with them.
Spurring forward to rejoin his command Pico found his soldiers already at the camp of the intrenched Sergeant Arguello and the precious Father Serra.
Turning a triumphant look back into the valley where he had escaped the infernal horde the incomparable Pico saw the demons huddled around El Demonio himself in the light of flames that licked out from a fearsome hole in the ground. Suddenly volumes of black and yellow and red smoke arose and enveloped the demons in a horrific pall. A livid lake of fire spread out all about them and down through its crimson surface the infernal band sank from sight.
In the morning when the happy Christians, rescued and rescuers alike, started their return to San Gabriél Arcángel they found that the lake of fire had been replaced by a lake of beautiful pure water, whereupon Father Serra, with a beatific expression, fell on his knees and gave thanks to God for this His gracious sign of safety to unworthy sinners.
When I submitted my translation of his ancestor’s manuscript concerning the origin of Elizabeth Lake to Don Guillermo of the fourth generation, he said:
“That is fine. You did your part well; but the inference made by the original chronicler at the end of his legend, that the Divine Spirit overcame the influence of the Arch Fiend at that spot by turning the lake of brimstone into a lake of pure water, though a beautiful idea, does not conform to the subsequent history of Elizabeth Lake. By all reports that is a horrible, haunted body of water. It is a mouth of Hell. For the century since the birth of that laguna as narrated in the manuscript, frightful and unearthly noises have emanated from those depths. Screams, shrieks, groans, as though Hell itself and its congregation of the damned might hie directly beneath the lake.”
“I had never realized that,” I replied in amazement.
“Why,” returned my informant, amazed in his turn at my ignorance, “it is all common knowledge among the natives, at least common tradition among them. And it is an actual fact that in the past no one could be found who would accept permanently a grant of that valley, despite its beauty and fertility, its succulent grasses, cool springs, purling brooks, shady groves. And even when American squatters began to come into the country they soon gave up their desire to possess the region. You may judge by this that there must have been something to the stories of its horrors, for the American squatter is hard to scare from good land.
“Tl tell you about Don Pedro Carrillo’s experience. You of course know the Carrillo family, perhaps the most prominent of all the old line in California, the men all brave and the women all beautiful. This Don Pedro was as brave as the Carrillo tradition, absolutely free from superstition, a disbeliever in things supernatural. In the middle 1830's, when in the full prime of his manhood, he procured a grant of many square leagues of land radiating from the Laguna del Diablo. He built a house by the lake, stocked the vast domain with horses and cattle and settled down to a life of pastoral independence and baronial pomp.
‘He was in his new home just three months. He fled one night, his pathway lighted by the conflagration that consumed his house, stables, corrals and storehouses. He abandoned his grant, and all he will ste as the reason if you ask him is, ‘It was because of the hell raised in and around Laguna del Diablo. Conditions there made me prematurely old.’
“From that time the beautiful lake and surrounding lands remained a desolation until the invasion of American squatters in 1855. They thought they had found a paradise but they didn’t stay long. It is the only instance in the history of California where the squatter yielded up a good location without a fight. They withdrew in a body, saying simply, ‘The whole infernal region is haunted.’
“Afterwards Chico Lopez yielded to the lure of the valley and settled down on a piece of the property out of sight of the laguna. Another Chico—Chico Vásquez, brother of the notorious bandit of the ’70’s, Tibúrcio Vásquez—was mayordomo del camp or boss of the ranges for Lopez. Once I was a guest at the López house when the mayordomo dashed up on horseback in great excitement and exclaimed, ‘For the love of God, mí patrón, go with me to the lake. Surely all the demons of song and story have come to the surface. Such an uproar and lashing of waters one never heard or saw before! The excited mayordomo crossed himself piously and offered up an oración from his seat in the saddle.
“We went immediately to the lake, the two Chicos and I.
“It was mid-day and the sun shone benignly on the mirrorlike surface of the laguna, which was as calm as a sleeping infant. Everything was delightfully quiet except the temper of Chico the master, whose choler rose as he concluded that he had been tricked by Chico the servant.
““What do you mean, mayordomo,’ he began, ‘in bringing us on this two-league gallop just to satisfy your idea of a joke?
“The poor mayordomo was trying to find words to cover his confusion when, as terrifying as a peal of thunder from a clear sky, a great whistling, hissing, screaming roar issued . from a growth of tules growing on the margin of the lake and so near to us that we could smell the nauseating, fetid breath of the monster emitting the sound. So sickening was the foul effluvia that we reeled in our saddles and no doubt would have been overcome had not our horses dashed away with us in fright.
“After bringing our horses under control we turned and gazed back at the lake. From our position we could discern the outlines of a huge monster, larger than the greatest whale, with enormous bat-like wings. At times it would flap these wings as though attempting to rise from the mud where it lay. It would roar and splash the water with what appeared to be great flippers or legs.
“Night came on and we returned to the ranch house and tried to eat supper, but found no relish in it. Neither could we sleep that night. In the morning all the vaqueros were mustered and armed with rifle, revolver and reata. With them we returned to the lake.
“The monster had disappeared. Whether it had flown away or sunk beneath the mud we could not determine but the foul odor, in diminished strength, was still evident. We returned to the house for breakfast to speculate over this astounding milagro.
“Said Chico López: ‘That water is certainly well named Laguna del Diablo, but how do you suppose its evil history originated? Is that slimy water spit in the mouth of Hell, or what?’
“‘I can probably arrive at the historical facts in a very short time,’ said I, remembering the yellowed old manuscripts still lying unread in treasure chest of my ancestor, Embustero y Mentiroso. ‘That forebear of mine wrote down everything of importance in the beginnings of California.’ And my surmise proved correct for you have before you now the document bearing on the origin of the lake you Americans call Elizabeth.”
Continuing the story of the two Chicos and their horrific monster, Don Guillermo the Fourth said that for a while nothing more of it was seen, but the Lopez horses and cattle began to disappear. First the owner thought grizzly bears were responsible, but this opinion proved unreasonable in view of the volume of devastation among the herds. Finally one night a great uproar was heard in a corral and by the time the vaqueros reached the spot ten mares with their foals were missing. And against the night sky was seen an incredible griffon winging away, heavy with feasting.
This was in 1883, the year in which Don Chico López sold out cheap to El Basquo Grande and left the accursed spot.
In October, 1886, one of our Los Angeles papers published the following, which was undoubtedly as true as anything else contained in this chapter:
“That is fine. You did your part well; but the inference made by the original chronicler at the end of his legend, that the Divine Spirit overcame the influence of the Arch Fiend at that spot by turning the lake of brimstone into a lake of pure water, though a beautiful idea, does not conform to the subsequent history of Elizabeth Lake. By all reports that is a horrible, haunted body of water. It is a mouth of Hell. For the century since the birth of that laguna as narrated in the manuscript, frightful and unearthly noises have emanated from those depths. Screams, shrieks, groans, as though Hell itself and its congregation of the damned might hie directly beneath the lake.”
“I had never realized that,” I replied in amazement.
“Why,” returned my informant, amazed in his turn at my ignorance, “it is all common knowledge among the natives, at least common tradition among them. And it is an actual fact that in the past no one could be found who would accept permanently a grant of that valley, despite its beauty and fertility, its succulent grasses, cool springs, purling brooks, shady groves. And even when American squatters began to come into the country they soon gave up their desire to possess the region. You may judge by this that there must have been something to the stories of its horrors, for the American squatter is hard to scare from good land.
“Tl tell you about Don Pedro Carrillo’s experience. You of course know the Carrillo family, perhaps the most prominent of all the old line in California, the men all brave and the women all beautiful. This Don Pedro was as brave as the Carrillo tradition, absolutely free from superstition, a disbeliever in things supernatural. In the middle 1830's, when in the full prime of his manhood, he procured a grant of many square leagues of land radiating from the Laguna del Diablo. He built a house by the lake, stocked the vast domain with horses and cattle and settled down to a life of pastoral independence and baronial pomp.
‘He was in his new home just three months. He fled one night, his pathway lighted by the conflagration that consumed his house, stables, corrals and storehouses. He abandoned his grant, and all he will ste as the reason if you ask him is, ‘It was because of the hell raised in and around Laguna del Diablo. Conditions there made me prematurely old.’
“From that time the beautiful lake and surrounding lands remained a desolation until the invasion of American squatters in 1855. They thought they had found a paradise but they didn’t stay long. It is the only instance in the history of California where the squatter yielded up a good location without a fight. They withdrew in a body, saying simply, ‘The whole infernal region is haunted.’
“Afterwards Chico Lopez yielded to the lure of the valley and settled down on a piece of the property out of sight of the laguna. Another Chico—Chico Vásquez, brother of the notorious bandit of the ’70’s, Tibúrcio Vásquez—was mayordomo del camp or boss of the ranges for Lopez. Once I was a guest at the López house when the mayordomo dashed up on horseback in great excitement and exclaimed, ‘For the love of God, mí patrón, go with me to the lake. Surely all the demons of song and story have come to the surface. Such an uproar and lashing of waters one never heard or saw before! The excited mayordomo crossed himself piously and offered up an oración from his seat in the saddle.
“We went immediately to the lake, the two Chicos and I.
“It was mid-day and the sun shone benignly on the mirrorlike surface of the laguna, which was as calm as a sleeping infant. Everything was delightfully quiet except the temper of Chico the master, whose choler rose as he concluded that he had been tricked by Chico the servant.
““What do you mean, mayordomo,’ he began, ‘in bringing us on this two-league gallop just to satisfy your idea of a joke?
“The poor mayordomo was trying to find words to cover his confusion when, as terrifying as a peal of thunder from a clear sky, a great whistling, hissing, screaming roar issued . from a growth of tules growing on the margin of the lake and so near to us that we could smell the nauseating, fetid breath of the monster emitting the sound. So sickening was the foul effluvia that we reeled in our saddles and no doubt would have been overcome had not our horses dashed away with us in fright.
“After bringing our horses under control we turned and gazed back at the lake. From our position we could discern the outlines of a huge monster, larger than the greatest whale, with enormous bat-like wings. At times it would flap these wings as though attempting to rise from the mud where it lay. It would roar and splash the water with what appeared to be great flippers or legs.
“Night came on and we returned to the ranch house and tried to eat supper, but found no relish in it. Neither could we sleep that night. In the morning all the vaqueros were mustered and armed with rifle, revolver and reata. With them we returned to the lake.
“The monster had disappeared. Whether it had flown away or sunk beneath the mud we could not determine but the foul odor, in diminished strength, was still evident. We returned to the house for breakfast to speculate over this astounding milagro.
“Said Chico López: ‘That water is certainly well named Laguna del Diablo, but how do you suppose its evil history originated? Is that slimy water spit in the mouth of Hell, or what?’
“‘I can probably arrive at the historical facts in a very short time,’ said I, remembering the yellowed old manuscripts still lying unread in treasure chest of my ancestor, Embustero y Mentiroso. ‘That forebear of mine wrote down everything of importance in the beginnings of California.’ And my surmise proved correct for you have before you now the document bearing on the origin of the lake you Americans call Elizabeth.”
Continuing the story of the two Chicos and their horrific monster, Don Guillermo the Fourth said that for a while nothing more of it was seen, but the Lopez horses and cattle began to disappear. First the owner thought grizzly bears were responsible, but this opinion proved unreasonable in view of the volume of devastation among the herds. Finally one night a great uproar was heard in a corral and by the time the vaqueros reached the spot ten mares with their foals were missing. And against the night sky was seen an incredible griffon winging away, heavy with feasting.
This was in 1883, the year in which Don Chico López sold out cheap to El Basquo Grande and left the accursed spot.
In October, 1886, one of our Los Angeles papers published the following, which was undoubtedly as true as anything else contained in this chapter:
A python, or at least a monster of some kind most terrible to behold, has made its appearance at Elizabeth Lake and has caused more terror and excitement among the people of that locality than did the great earthquake of 1855 which rent the earth asunder, leaving the present appearance of an old canal or the grade of a cyclopean railroad. 'The earthquake did not frighten the lake people to any great extent for the simple reason that in 1855 there were no inhabitants in that windy locality.
The python or whatever it is, is not alone because there are many cattle, horses, sheep, pigs, chickens and people at the laguna now off which the python delights to feed. We don’t know positively that the monster has yet gorged itself on corpus humanus, but it is attested that at night he comes out of the water, visits the corrals and fills up with sheep and calves, a half-dozen at a time. Upon one occasion the monstrosity tried the temper of a regular Texas long-horn steer, which made such a kick and bellowing as brought Don Felipe Rivera to the locus in quo. He saw the python which at that moment had swallowed the bronco steer to the middle. But after a terrific struggle the victim freed itself and the monster, in disappointment and alarm, betook itself to the lake.
Don Felipe describes the monster as about fifteen varas (forty-four feet) long and as large as four elephants. Large enough, indeed, to make a saddle horse for Gen. Brierly. It had a head very much like a bulldog, and Don Felipe thinks it had six legs. Of wings he is positive, which lie flat on the monster’s back when not expanded.
Don Felipe Rivera, as his name indicates, is a don of the true Castilian blood who fears not hippogriffes, dragons nor devils, so he ran alongside the python as it floundered toward the lake and emptied his .44 caliber old-fashioned Colt into its side. ‘The bullets striking the monster’s side sounded just as if they were striking against a great iron kettle,” said Don Felipe. “One bullet bounced back and hit me and the next morning I picked up four that were as flat as coins. This is all true, on the honor of an hidalgo.”
We learn that Don Felipe has come to town at the instance of the terrified Laguneros to consult and adopt ways and means to capture the python. The Sells Brothers have already sent an agent to the lake to report upon the best means of securing the monster alive and to decide if it is possible to handle it in the circus. The contract which Don Felipe has been astute enough to demand from Sells Brothers is on record and can be seen. It covenants as follows: “That if the python is such as the party of the first part describes it to be, and if the party of the first part succeeds in taking it. alive, then the party of the second part agrees to pay the party of the first part the sum of $20,000.”
This flying amphibious monster was seen several times from 1881 to 1886 and once El Basquo Grande, with his well-known aversion to any rival in his domain, got after it as it betook itself to the lake. Before he could come to grips the terrible Thing sank without leaving a trace, as had the Devil himself once upon a time at that very spot. But not long thereafter it was seen emerging and flying away eastward. Since then it has never been seen in its native valley because it was found and killed eight hundred miles from Lake Elizabeth, as is proved by the following article that appeared in The Epitaph, Tombstone, Arizona:
A winged monster resembling a huge alligator with an extremely elongated tail and an immense pair of wings was found on the desert between Whetstone and the Huachuca Mountains last Sunday by two ranchers as they returned home from the Huachucas. The creature was evidently greatly exhausted by a long flight and when discovered was able to fly but a short distance at a time. After the first shock of wild amazement had passed the two men, who were on horseback and armed with Winchester rifles, regained sufficient courage to pursue the monster and after an exciting chase of several miles succeeded in getting near enough to open fire and wound it. ‘The creature then turned on the men but owing to its exhausted condition they were able to keep out of its way and after a few well directed shots the monster rolled partly over and remained motionless. The men cautiously approached, their horses snorting with terror, and found that the creature was dead.
They then proceeded to make an examination and found that it measured ninety-two feet in length and the greatest diameter was about fifty inches. It had only two feet, situated a short distance in front of: where the wings were joined to the body. The beak, as near as they could judge, was about eight feet long, the jaws being thickly set with strong, sharp teeth. The eyes were as large as dinner plates and protruded from the head. Some difficulty was encountered in measuring the wings as they were partly folded under the body, but finally one was straightened out sufficiently to get a measurement of seventy-eight feet, making the total length from tip to tip about one hundred and sixty feet. The wings are composed of a thick and nearly transparent membrane and are devoid of feathers or hair, as is the entire body. The skin of the body was comparatively smooth and easily penetrated by a bullet. The men cut off a small portion of the tip of one wing and took it home with them. Last night one of them arrived in this city for supplies and to make preparations to skin the creature. The hide will be sent to eminent scientists for examination. The finders returned to the kill early this morning, accompanied by several prominent men who will endeavor to bring the strange creature to town before it is mutilated.
Commenting on the story in the Arizona paper, a Los Angeles paper in May, 1890, said:
Such a bird, reptile or monster was seen about three years ago by three Mexican rancheros living near Elizabeth Lake. When first seen it was lashing itself about in the deep waters of the lake. The men took it for a bunch of cattle that had mired down and approached to see if they could save them when a winged creature of huge proportions rose into the air and flew heavily out of sight. The Mexicans’ story was told here and greatly ridiculed at the time.
It may prove, however, that in the desert fastnesses some of the prehistoric reptiles, supposed to have become extinct ages ago, still exist. The traditions of the Indians would seem to point to such a possibility.
Thus runs the legend of Elizabeth Lake and I beg the reader to believe every line of this chapter because it is founded on the word of an Embustero y Mentiroso, hidalgo of the old blood, and others of equal credibility.
Source: Horace Bell, On the Old West Coast: Being the Further Reminiscences of a Ranger, ed. Lanier Bartlett (New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1930), 194-206.
