In this way he evaded the very men who had been on his track for weeks.

Once he came near capture.

He passed a bad-looking lot of horsemen, one of whom had a deep red scar the whole length of his cheek.

He got by safely, but one, looking round, exclaimed, "My God! That's Horton! I see the green saddle." And back they dashed to kill him and gain his treasure, but he escaped into a canon, and they lost their one chance.
At another time he had $3500 in gold in his belt, and at a tavern of poor repute he could hear through cracks in the floor of his bedroom the gamblers below laughing about the old greenhorn above who had his supper of mush and milk and had asked for a lock on his door.
Returning East _via_ Panama in 1856, he proved himself a hero and a soldier during the terrible riot there.

The natives, angry because they had lost the money they used to make in transporting passengers, attacked the foreigners, killing and plundering all who came in their way, the police turning traitors and aiding them.