One had been made at the head of the creek,
and boats discharged and took off cargoes from a mole or wharf,
in a quiet place, safe from southeasters.
A tug ran to take off
passengers from the steamer to the wharf, - for the trade of Los
Angeles is sufficient to support such a vessel. I got the captain
to land me privately, in a small boat, at the old place by the hill.
I dismissed the boat, and, alone, found my way to the high ground.
I say found my way, for neglect and weather had left but few
traces of the steep road the hide-vessels had built to the top.
The cliff off which we used to throw the hides, and where I spent
nights watching them, was more easily found. The population was
doubled, that is to say, there were two houses, instead of one,
on the hill. I stood on the brow and looked out toward the offing,
the Santa Catalina Island, and, nearer, the melancholy Dead Man's
Island, with its painful tradition, and recalled the gloomy days
that followed the flogging, and fancied the Pilgrim at anchor in
the offing. But the tug is going toward our steamer, and I must
awake and be off. I walked along the shore to the new landing-place,
where were two or three store-houses and other buildings, forming a
small depot; and a stage-coach, I found, went daily between this place
and the Pueblo.
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