So I say, the work was never done. At the end of six months my
loneliness was broken by the arrival of two comrades. They were young
girls, brave souls and passionate lovers of liberty: Lora Peterson, who
disappeared in 1922, and Kate Bierce, who later married Du Bois,* and
who is still with us with eyes lifted to to-morrow's sun, that heralds
in the new age.

* Du Bois, the present librarian of Ardis, is a lineal
descendant of this revolutionary pair.

The two girls arrived in a flurry of excitement, danger, and sudden
death. In the crew of the fishing boat that conveyed them across San
Pablo Bay was a spy. A creature of the Iron Heel, he had successfully
masqueraded as a revolutionist and penetrated deep into the secrets
of our organization. Without doubt he was on my trail, for we had long
since learned that my disappearance had been cause of deep concern to
the secret service of the Oligarchy. Luckily, as the outcome proved, he
had not divulged his discoveries to any one. He had evidently delayed
reporting, preferring to wait until he had brought things to a
successful conclusion by discovering my hiding-place and capturing me.
His information died with him. Under some pretext, after the girls had
landed at Petaluma Creek and taken to the horses, he managed to get away
from the boat.

Part way up Sonoma Mountain, John Carlson let the girls go on, leading
his horse, while he went back on foot. His suspicions had been aroused.
He captured the spy, and as to what then happened, Carlson gave us a
fair idea.

"I fixed him," was Carlson's unimaginative way of describing the affair.