Dan DeQuille:  Washoe Rambles

[From the San Francisco Golden Era, July 28-December 1, 1861]

Part 4 of 4 

CHAPTER X

AGAIN it is morning in Silver Hill cañon, and we prospectors are busy with our pots and pans. As I hate most infernally to cook, or even to hear the rattle of said utensils when there is the remotest probability of my being "rung in" to officiate in the culinary department, the subject is not a pleasant one to me, and I will "drap" it, and say that breakfast is over, not a pot, pan or kettle in sight, and I am stretched on my blankets under the awning, reading the last Harper. Mr. Wallace and Harvey brought out a load of case liquors, thinking to sell enough to pay expenses while prospecting; but there appeared to be a most deplorable lack of dinero, and but very few sales were effected. I was very much amused at seeing the manoeuvres of some of the strapped but thirsty bummers, while engineering to get a square drink on the "square."

A tall, gaunt individual is seen coming down the street; his hat slightly cocked on one side; the collar of his woolen shirt thrown back, exposing his bare, shaggy breast; he wears a terribly earnest, "hankering" look, but apparently he does not see the wagon or liquors; seemingly he is looking down the cañon, straight before him at some object far out on the desert--really he sees nothing on the desert; he is not looking down the cañon; he is looking at nothing, he sees nothing but the wagon and the array of trim, foil-capped bottles. You think he is going to pass the wagon without seeing it or you, but he suddenly turns on his heel and gazes on the wagon in open mouthed astonishment. He is surprised to see a wagon there. How did it come there? He has never seen it before—no, never. And liquors in it too. Singular. A wagon here, a wagon with liquors, and I not seen it before? They must be for sale. Lucky. I'll just buy a few bottles. He looks so much like a man that intends buying six bottles that you are glad to see him.

"Good morning, sir," you say. "Good mornin'," says he. He looks at the bottles and draws down the corners of his mouth; his nostrils expand as though he smelt something "afar off," and his eyes twinkle "ha, ha!"

"He's a customer!" you say in your heart. He strides up to the wagon, takes hold on the bed and runs his eyes over the bottles; he gulps down something which seems to have risen in his throat and draws the back of his left hand across his lips. "Yes, he's a customer," but he'll only buy one bottle; being so fond of his "nip" he would have hardly allowed himself to become so thirsty had he possessed the "tin" wherewith to buy six bottles. "Hush! the gentleman is about to speak."

"These 'ere lickers for sale, mister?"

"Yes, sir, for sale low—very low. We are going away tomorrow and are selling at less than Carson prices. How many bottles would you like, sir?"

"Ahem! what sorter lickers yer got?"

"Old Tom, rum, brandy, whisky, etc.—all fine liquors—choice liquors, sir."

"Yes, proverable; but thar's sich a all mighty sight o' mean shot-gun, chain litin' and forty rod goin' nowadays, a feller's got to be on the lookout or he's bit.''

"Here's a bottle of gin open, now—but what kind of liquor did you wish to buy?"

"Well, 'sposin' its good, I'd want some gin."

"Here, try this; you will say you never tasted better."

Raw-mouthed individ' stretches forth his hand with tremulous eagerness, and clasps tenderly the neck of his beloved; he raises his well-beloved toward his mouth and his impatient lips quit their dalliance with their ivory prisoners and run hastily forward to meet and welcome with warm embrace the well-beloved, the bride of their master. Raw-mouthed takes a telescopic view of the rocks at the base of the opposite mountain. Gradually elevates his telescope from the base, slowly, carefully, toward the summit, as though searching for the croppings of a quartz lead. Holds it a moment on the rocky summit looking for mountain sheep; suddenly throws back his head and takes a squint at the north star--this latter brilliant view is too much for him. Contemplating the wondrous works of the Creator as displayed in the flaming luminaries of blue ethereal space, has overcome him. He drops his glass in awe; tears, forced from his eyes by thoughts of his own insignificance and unworthiness, roll down his convulsed features; he heaves a sigh of profound regret for the fleeting character and utter littleness of all mundane things, but a pint of gin in particular.

We are disgusted. We know that we have been deceived—he is no customer--we've merely had a nibble from a bummer, a human gar that will never pay for the trouble of landing. We don't ask him to buy, we leave him to retreat in such manner as seemeth best to him. He has stolen the bait from our hook, now let him take himself off with the gorged spoil. See how he does it:

"That am't bad licker, mister, an' I dunno but I may come to-morrow an' buy a bottle of mine don't come to-day. I'm looking fur a dozen o' gin by my partner, every minit—Good morning, sir.

"Good morning, sir—but say, look here; you can recommend our liquors, our gin, as not being of a poisonous character?" "O! sartin! sartin, I'll reckermend it!"

"If you please, just say that you drank nearly a whole bottle, and didn't hurt you in the least!"

Red-mouthed turns on his heel and deigns no answer. A man now comes up and after a slight "nip" buys two bottles. We are encouraged. Two men now approach; we don't altogether like their motions but they are well dressed and may buy—they look dry, wistful, but approach sidewise and cautiously. Still they may have money.

"These liquors for sale?"

"Yes, sir, at less than Sacramento retail prices—good too—choice liquors. Have a few bottles gentlemen?—sure to suit you."

"Well, perhaps; but these case liquors are, sometimes, such infernally doctored-up and adulterated messes, that it is rather risky to purchase."

Bummers! O, we fear they are bummers!—but still they may buy. "We can open a bottle and you can test it—that is if you wish to buy several bottles?"

"If we conclude to buy, that is, if we like the liquor, we will take about a dozen. Let us see some gin," said the tall, hook-nosed man.

Takes it and looks at it suspiciously, turning the bottle over and over and holding it at arms length as though it was something he abominated—stuff of such doubtful character that his offended nostrils rebelled against its near approach, and the end of his hooked nose strove to turn up in disgust. He looked suspiciously at the label, and we trembled, lest he should pronounce it a counterfeit.

Oh he's no bummer; he's a cautious, shrewd business man. If the liquor will only pass inspection he will buy! If the label and signature is all right he may not taste it at all. But, hold! he looks through it quietly, steadily, then lowers it to his mouth and brings it to the horizontal; one eye, his left, is half shut; the expression of his countenance is serene, calm as an unruffled lake; not a gurgle is heard, yet the contents of the bottle are gliding into his throat as swiftly, as smoothly, as silently, as the winged-waters of the Niagara before taking the final plunge into fathomless abyss. His drink is of moderate length, but straight to the point, swift and well calculated to produce a great effect in a short space of time. On taking the bottle from his mouth—which he does by turning its neck upward and forward in a graceful curve —he again looks suspiciously at the label and moves his lips as in the act of tasting.

"Some turpentine there I think, a little turpentine!" says the tall man. Then passing it to his companion—a short, stout man with sandy complexion, light shaggy eye-brows, a few stiff red bristles scattered here and there on his chin; cheeks that like two big red apples stand above his nose, which latter is turned squarely up though endeavoring to maintain its traditioned right to supremacy as the most prominent member of the face—says: "See what you think of it."

Short man seizes the bottle with a quick jerk; throws his head back with another jerk and turns the bottom of the bottle square to the zenith, causing its contents to gurgle and spin down like a miniature Maelstrom. The contents of the bottle seem to fairly drop down his throat; but, the Saints be blessed! the convulsion, if severe, is the sooner over. Short man gives his lips a tremendous smack, holds down his head and studies a minute; "Rosin!" he exclaims, "not turpentine, rosin!"

"Think so?" queries the tall man, "I may be mistaken, but think not." Another drink--swift, silent, straight to the mark; "It has not the bitter taste rosin would be apt to give it—I still think it's turpentine, with, perhaps, a dash of prussic acid."

Short man gives another good miniature illustration of the terrors of the Maelstrom; "Don't think there is any turpentine; may be a touch of prussic acid, rather think it is oil of vitriol."

Tall man tests for oil of vitriol; "I think you are mistaken about the oil of vitriol; I find nothing like it, but there may be rosin and essence of laurel."

"I wonder if that ain't it," says short man, and again the bottom of the bottle points to the zenith; "I think we must have been mistaken about prussic acid, oil of vitriol, and essence of laurel, when I come to pay particular attention I find nothing but what might be produced by adding rosin, turpentine and tobacco."

"You must be mistaken about the tobacco, you have just been chewing," and tall man takes a swift and most effective pull; "As I supposed, there is no tobacco in it, you were deceived by the quid you have just been chewing--its rosin and turpentine."

"What you say looks very reasonable. I might very easily been deceived in that way." (Tries it again.) "I don't like to disagree with you, but in this case I must claim to be right. The tobacco I have been chewing is not `fine cut' "

Tall man tests for "fine-cut:" "I am forced to acknowledge that you are right; there is a slight dash of "fine-cut" which I at first mistook for prussic acid, then for the essence of laurel—yes, its turpentine, rosin and fine-cut." Short man turns up the bottle to be certain of the "fine-cut," and the last drop in the bottle van- ishes down his throat. "Yes, I am now positive it is turpentine, rosin and 'fine-cut'—natural-leaf would give the gin a smoother taste."

During this operation we are so overwhelmed with astonishment as to be unable to put in a single word in defence of our gin; and then the cool way in which they went to work was very puzzling. We are left entirely outside; they don't even look toward us; they are so busily engaged in watching the expression of one another's countenances that apparently they are not aware of our being within five miles of them. We are sure we have caught a pair of gars, yet hope urges us to ask in a timid voice:

"Well, how many bottles will you take?"

"How many bottles will we take?" fairly yells the tall man, "we will take none, sir—none! Do you suppose we are going to throw away money on such vile stuff as your gin, a compound of turpentine, rosin and tobacco?"

"With traces of prussic acid, oil of vitriol and essence of laurel," chimes in the short man.

"Do you wish to poison the hard-working miners of this peaceful settlement," asked the tall one, regarding us fiercely, and adds; "In five minutes time I could arouse the whole town, smash your wagon and have you hung to the nearest tree for bringing into this happy cañon a deadly poison, under the name of gin, with which to torture and murder a harmless and industrious people." The tall man and the short man turn on their heels and leave in high dudgeon; the tall one even turns about, after having walked some distance, and shaking his fore finger at us, advises to—"mind our eye."

"We are thunderstruck and wonder if we really have been dealing out death under the guise of a choice article of gin; but after thinking the matter over, we are satisfied that a pair of gars of the fiercest class have been nibbling the bait from our hook. About nine times out of ten, during the day, our gold-fish turns out a sucker or a gar--most unprofitable sport.

Our dog makes his appearance about ten o'clock, far down in the cañon, staggering and reeling along. He could not travel much faster than a child could crawl; his tongue hung from his mouth, dry and swollen, and his eyes were much inflamed. When we got him to camp he was almost wild for water, and would have killed himself on the spot could he have had free access to the spring. The day was terribly hot and time passed off dull enough. I amused myself by reading, playing tricks on the Indians and showing them engravings. They liked those best representing battles; on looking at a fashion plate where a lady was represented wearing a very low-necked dress, an Indian pointed his finger and laughed, saying—"See, the American woman heap got no shirt!"

Toward evening Tom and Mr. Mitchell return. They have found a new route for the Overland Mail through the Arroyo Grande from Redman's and across the desert and Edward's Creek mountains; also a valley affording a world of the most luxuriant grass, with springs, wood and everything that heart could desire; in short a perfect paradise or garden of Eden. All of which they claimed with all "dips, spurs, angles and variations."

We had been waiting over a day for Tom to return, so that we might start for home, and it was now decided that the start should be made in the morning. But Tom would go via Arroyo Grande and the New Jerusalem; while Bob and I would strike westward, cross the mountains and follow up the Lower Sink to Redman's. Wallace would go with his wagon down the desert, via Cliff Springs and Sand Springs, to Redman's; also Mitchell and Hull with a wagon, the same route.

During the evening Wallace and Harvey offered tools, liquors, provisions, etc. at less than Carson prices, but there was no money, and they were obliged to make up their minds to either throw the load away or haul it home. The latter seemed the most sensible plan, and was adopted accordingly. A crowd of Indians hovered constantly about our camp, ready to bring wood, water, or to go out after stock. As long as they could have plenty to eat, tobacco to smoke, and pick up an occasional quarter or half, they were as happy as kings.

Something was said about Chinamen, when one of the Piutes, who could talk a little English, said: "Chinaman, heap d—n no good! too much tail, too mucha--hi-chung-gee-long-hi, hawki-hi-chung!--no good, very bad Injun, John is."

This Indian was decidedly down on John Chinaman, and could give a most ludicrous burlesque of the Celestial style of singing, accompanied by the most horrible grimaces, a la sick Chinaman. This evening we had a visitor in our camp. His name I cannot give, for he came unannounced and seating himself on a rock near our fire, lighted his pipe and made himself at home. Though I cannot give his name I can give you some notion of his looks. A round solid-looking head; a full and red face; jet black hair, whiskers and eye-brows; a nose "on the" Roman; white, regular teeth, plainly visible when he grinned--and he was always grinning except when haw-hawing; eyes that sparkled and flashed like black diamonds, and bored into you unpleasantly even when dancing with fun.

'Well, what of it," Nothing.

What of him? Next to nothing:

He told a little story that I have thought worth repeating—that's all. He told several stories but I will trouble you with but one, and it is of himself. As I am tired of talking and as I have introduced him to my audience—"be the same more or less"—he may as well tell his own story:

"I once had the bad luck, while tramping through California, to fetch up at a town known as Arbustum City.

"I had about two thousand dollars in my pocket and was fool enough to invest one thousand of it in a set of hill claims. These claims, I was told, would pay when opened, fifty dollars per day to the man. I was shown splendid prospects and could get 'em myself. I thought it all on the square.

"When water came I went to work on my new claims, and after I had washed out what dust had been fired into the bank with shotguns, never got a dollar. Kept on and spent five hundred of my other thousand. Got no gold and quit mining in disgust.

"Having a pretty decent board house on the main street of the town, I concluded I would open a saloon and see if I couldn't get even on the country in that way—though I should have known that if the mine in the vicinity didn't pay, a saloon wouldn't be apt to. But I never thought of that. I knew that I had lost my money in Arbustum and I was bound that Arbustum should return it.

"Well, I got a stock of forty-rod and cutthroat, started, and it wouldn't win. Couldn't make grub. I had no end of customers, but they had long since seen the end of their money. I done a staying credit business.

"The stock at length run low, and there was but ten dollars in the whole house with which to renew it. Worse than all I was sick and unable to endure hard work. One day, just at this time, a stranger came into town and happened to call in at my 'dead-fall' for a drink. I soon found out that he wanted to start in the saloon business in the mountains, and had come to Arbustum, as it was a new mining town, and was well spoken of where he had been. ('You know, boys, the little towns away up in the mountains—where they have never had any water, but have been going to have it in just precisely two months, for the last eight years--are always a d--d big thing till you get there.')

'Well, as I was saying, this fellow was stuck after Arbustum, and I offered to sell him my saloon for $2,000, cash down, as I was sick and couldn't attend properly to it--which was many a big dollar out of my pocket—`in a horn, you know.'

`But, said the man, you don't seem to have much of a crowd around; where are all your customers?'

"To-day is Saturday; they are all busy at their claims, cleaning up their dust. Wait till tomorrow and you will see them spend money like dirt."

'Well, after a long talk, the fellow agreed to come and look on the next day, and if he liked the appearance of things, said he would give me my price.

"As soon as he was gone, I went to a particular friend of mine, who I knew could raise about fifty dollars, and as soon as he heard my plan to make a raise he agreed to assist me. I then went around among those whose names honored the pages of my books, and told them if they would all turn out and play poker and drink whisky all the next day, I would furnish them the money to pay for all they could drink and burn the old books into the bargain, if the sale was affected.

"Of course they were all delighted with the plan. There was a chance for a glorious time—a big drunk. "The next day my saloon was crowded and crammed all day and till after midnight. The card tables were all occupied and money was flying in all directions. As fast as I took it in, I watched my opportunity and started it around again. Handfuls of silver were purposely scattered over the floor, and the first man who got hold of it spent it at the bar. Half a dozen genuine fights came off, and everything looked lively and prosperous. Two or three times knives and pistols were drawn in downright earnest, and I really felt proud of being recognized as the head of such a delightful and flourishing establishment, and was forced to sigh when I thought this enchanting scene was a mere show and without the `rocks' for foundation.

"Again I trembled lest some drunken revelers should let the `cat out of the bag.' But all went off as I could have desired.

"My merchant was well pleased, yea, delighted with my customers, and paid me over the $2,000, in hard `scads.'

"I did not linger in Arbustum. That night saw me mounted on the best mule in the town and on my way to the City of the Plains.

"Thus, I got even on Arbustum.

"I lost my $2,000 by buying a `salted' claim, and found them by selling a `salted' saloon."

Other stories were told, and songs sung, till the cliffs above us rang again in musical echoes. The stranger brought his blankets and stretched himself near our camp, but in the morning he was gone and we saw him no more. In the morning all of our animals were found without difficulty, except Tom's horse; he was again invisible.

All hands were now packing up and fixing for a start homeward. Mac and Scotty concluded to try their fortunes with Bob and I, as they had a horror of the desert between Silver Hill and Sand Springs. Wallace and Harvey, with Charley, (Dootsee Capitan) would go with the wagon.

We had now been here two days and had seen nothing of Capitan Juan. Mr. Wallace could not well wait the full time agreed upon, for him to come in and receive his presents; but he talked of having blankets, breeches, flour and sugar at Silver Hill camp, to be given to Juan when he did come. I hope he done so?

We gave our dog to a citizen of Silver Hill, as he was not in a fit state for traveling. The poor fellow howled and struggled terribly when he saw us depart without him. I pitied the poor fellow, yet he was a worthless cur.

At last we were all ready, and bidding goodbye to the boys we turned our faces to the westward. The last glimpse I caught of Smyth-ee, was making fast time down Silver Hill cañon, with his blankets and saddle on his back, on his way to Arroyo Grande and the New Jerusalem, expecting to capture his runaway steed somewhere on the desert. And from what I have lately heard, it is very probable that while I am penning these lines, little Charley, the wild Piute boy is gazing on the wonders of Sacramento City.

In passing up the Silver Hill cañon, we met some Silver City men—W. H. Dudley, and Doc Keen—rushing downward on their stout nags to the village below. We found the mountain a very hard one to climb; my horse was lame and Bob's poisoned with alkali and very weak—the jackass we could still number among the unterrified. The sun poured down upon our backs, and its refracted rays, hot and hissing, struck us full in the face. Every fifty yards we were forced to halt and rest. It was hot!

At last we are upon the summit. We look downward and to the west see the waters of the Lower Sink. We halt and rest. A fine, cool breeze is sweeping over the mountains. Before us we see our trail plunging almost straight down. It is walled in by high shattered cliffs of slate, and on starting down we found the foundation of the trail composed of loose fragments of this same shelly slate into which our animals ploughed to their knees. It was terribly steep.

On this occasion I felt like swearing; but when I reflected that my ancestors were Quakers and that my great, greater, greatest grandfather, Anthony —, came over with Penn and settled at Philadelphia, out of respect to the memory of that worthy I forbore: And another thing—swearing is bad for a fat man, in hot weather.

Half-way down the mountain we found some springs, and near the springs some Spaniards at work on a vein of supposed silver-bearing rock. Here we refilled our canteens and allowed the animals a short rest. We were till after three o'clock in reaching the shore of the lake, which we struck near the northern end. We crossed over, in getting to the lake, about twelve miles of burning alkali desert. It would grieve me to search for words strong enough to convey an idea of the degree of heat we experienced on this desert; also, fearing that should I undertake it I might grieve my reader—that is supposing I have one, and I must suppose I have one or it would break my heart.

Every "gal or feller" that scribbles, likes to think of and talk of their "dear reader" and "fair reader" and "kind reader" and "patient reader," and I know not how many other descriptions, kinds and sorts of readers. Now I often think of mine. Mine—the "deserving reader." If he reads my whole story through he deserves my everlasting gratitude. And if after having read it he considers himself paid for his trouble, he deserves a medal, for the moderateness of his desires.

My poor, "deserving reader" how can I ever repay you for the many fruitless races I have led you. Once, dear, "deserving reader," we are safely out of this scrape, we will never undertake so long a chase again. No, never! But it's all my fault; you had faith in me; you trusted in and followed me hopefully on, ever ready to admire beauties we have never seen; never discouraged but always ready to think—" 'tis now but a little way," we "must be almost there"—"O! now it can't be far!"

Alas, alas! poor, dear, "deserving reader," I too am sad—I too am disappointed. I thought, when we set out, to show you something that would repay us for our toilsome journey. I am sad for myself, but you trusted in me and my heart bleeds for you!

But we are in for it; I can't leave you here on this burning sand—I must blunder out some way. Then give me thy hand gentle, "deserving reader," and we will again renew the journey. But, hold! If you're very tired, you may ride the jackass. In passing down from the mountains to the lake, we took turns in riding, in order to rest Mac and Scotty, for on foot the heat was almost unbearable.

We had accomplished half the distance to the Lower Sink, when looking south, we saw at the distance of half a mile and extending far to the south and eastward, till it rested against the base of the rugged mountains in that direction, a spectre lake!

When passing around the southern extremity of the Great Sink, we had seen several mirages, and thought we had seen all that ever had been seen in illusions of this nature, when we saw crows walking about the borders of these unsubstantial ponds magnified to the size and height of cranes, and when we saw clumps of greasewood, a foot in height, suddenly rise to the height of eight or ten feet--though I must confess that they were not even then stationary, but danced up and down continually; part of the time were very distinct and again blurred and obscure.

Now, let me see if I can convey to the reader—my "deserving reader"—any idea of what we now saw before us—the great "Spectre Lake!"

We are standing far, far out in a desert. It is hot, very hot. The earth is hot. The air is hot. Every diminutive, stunted, shrub, and every twig is hot—you would not be surprised to see them commence to smoke and burst out into flames. The earth on which we are standing is as level as a floor, and at no very remote period formed the bed of a lake of very muddy water. This lake evaporated, leaving the contained mud and condensed alkali on the surface of its bed, where it now lies as smooth, as hard and exactly resembling the "hard-finish" on a plastered wall. Well, this horizontal sheet of "hard coating" extends southward some twenty miles, and is several miles in width. Now, looking south-ward, we see the edge of the lake nearest us, at the distance of perhaps half-a-mile, perhaps not over a quarter—it is hard to say. The southern shore is miles away. There lies the lake, calm, unruffled, silvery and apparently as cool and real as the waters of the Sink near by, on the right. You would as soon swear Bigler Lake was a phantom as that this was no real water. You can look across its level surface far, far away to where its edge rests against the peaks to the east and south, and see these peaks reflected in its calm depths--every rugged hill and every dark, wooded cañon. You look down, down along the western shore of the lake, till it seems to join and mingle with the waters of the Sink, and you see groves and clumps of trees clothed with gray and brown foliage, and behold a troop of giraffes walking along the margin of the lake toward the groves, with their long necks swinging to and fro, whilst above them hovers a monster bird, more formidable in size than the fabled Piazzi of the Illinis. You look incredulous when I tell you that those groves are sage bushes and greasewood, but a foot in height, and the towering line of giraffes but ravens, the mighty soaring roc but a hawk cruising in search of a young hare. But it is so.

I think the stories of these mirages, far out in the desert, exhibiting the appearance of lakes bordered with green grass and green trees, all gammon. A mirror will not reflect a green twig, if we hold a brown one before it; to see green grass or trees reflected in a mirage there must be something green, as shrubs or grass, in the vicinage. (I might say more on this point but a very little thinking will show you all I could tell you. It will not tire you as much to think as it would me to write; then the weather is warm and I am fat—you know.)

Speaking of the terrible scorching deserts has brought to my mind sad thoughts; thoughts of my old friend, Billy Dewey.

Poor, poor, Billy! It is only a few days since I heard of his dying a frightful death on one of these fiery plains—the "Dead Man's" desert—after nearly four days of thirst and torture. His body, and that of a companion who died the day before, still lie unburied on the burning sands of the wild and arid waste. One man alone lived to tell the tale of their sufferings—a tale too terrible to repeat. Many is the long, lone journey Billy made among the wild rugged mountains of the interior. Often has he stood on giddy peaks and looked down on regions the foot of white man never trod. Often, from their watch towers on the peaks, have the "Children of the Desert" gazed down on him, a mere speck, as he wandered on the shore of some silent, solitary lake. But his wanderings are ended; the imprint of his once restless feet will never again be seen on the shores of the far-off, hidden lakes. Thoughts of wondrous valleys hemmed in among the blue, hazy mountains, sleeping against the eastern sky—valleys where sparkling rills run rippling over golden-pebbled beds and plash on shores of golden sand—will never, never more, be his. Poor Billy! With his young head resting on his folded blankets, and his pipe—the one he loved so well and ever carried—lying on his breast, far out, in the burning and lone, lone desert, he lies. Poor poor Billy!

____________________

CHAPTER XI

THE point on the lake where we had pitched our camp, was far north, and so near where the water disappeared in the great alkali desert, that the water was almost as strong as lye, and the largest wood was no thicker than an oat straw. This was bad, but it was absolutely necessary to halt, to allow our animals to feed and to cook something for ourselves. Thanks to Scotty's foresight, we had a sufficiency of bread already baked, but to boil coffee and fry bacon with such fuel as was at hand, was an operation that would have tasked the patience of Old Job himself.

Here, again, but for recollections of my pious ancestors, I fear I should have used unbecoming language. After half-an-hour's trial we abandoned the fine flax-like twigs of grass-wood, which would only smoke and steam, and seized upon a lot of dry grass, gathered by the Piute women for the seed, and commenced the battle anew. If such fuel as bois de vache could have been found, how gladly would we have gathered and used it—but there was nary a "bois." At last our coffee boiled, and we consoled ourselves for all our vexation by the thought that we could now more fully appreciate "the troubles of the first settlers."

But we now became aware of a "trouble" more grievous to be borne than any experienced before—our coffee after all our sweating and temptations to swearing, was unfit to drink. We put sugar into it by handfuls; we put whiskey into it by—thunder; and the more we put into it the more we couldn't drink it. Alkali, alkali! Oh, alkali! demon, fiend, devil of barrenness and nastiness! Where thou abidest is all foulness; the most bright and sparkling water is loathsome carrion; thy breezes are but beating waves of stench; before thy briny, blasting breath, all green and beautiful things perish and fade away!

We managed to swallow a very little coffee—the water, our stomachs utterly refused; its smell was carrion, its taste was liquid fire!—Some of our party had crossed the plains, yet had never met any water to come near it in strength and nauseousness. (We afterward discovered that we had taken this water from a pond, having no connection with the lake which had evaporated till it was but a pool of lye.)

As we were terribly thirsty we hastened to leave the place and travel up the Lake toward our old camping ground. As much as we suffered with thirst, we traveled twelve miles without going to the Lake in search of water, though at no time was it distant over two miles. So sickening was the recollection of that we had drank at our last camp, that we would not venture to try again for water till we had reached spot where it was known to be drinkable. Had we been travelling across some great desert, or even out of sight of water, we would have been beside ourselves with the degree of thirst we then felt; but knowing that within two miles we could find water that would at least keep us alive, we managed by chewing bits of cork and twigs to keep our sufferings out of mind. Mac and Scotty suffered more than Bob or myself, and on reaching the first Indian village, they stopped and drank out of those filthy looking wicker bottles, used by the Piutes for containing water. They were somewhat relieved, but found the water warm and of a very disagreeable taste. They had scarce swallowed a few mouthfuls before the Indians surrounded them and demanded pay: "Money, money, give me heap a money!" The boys told them they would "owe them" a "heap a money."

This afternoon was what might be termed a "scorcher," but we had been so much scorching that we were getting used to it. My nose and face were perfectly case-hardened--nothing short of red hot iron could now make an impression on my phiz-mahogany. Mac's hands were terribly burned; the backs of them were blistered and raw--boiling water could not have burned them worse. So much for his "fair, Hibernian skin!"

In vain I looked among the women and maidens of the villages for my young Indian beauty, my lithe and agile Piute Hamadrayad. She was perhaps, out wading along the margin of the lake, amongst the bulrushes, gathering taewoep, or hunting for ducks' eggs. I saw several black heads far out on the green expanse, bobbing like buoys above the dark field of rushes. Doubtless one of those wandering ink-balls was the cranium of my nymph. They gather the large stalks of these rushes and peeling off the rind, chew the succulent pith. We often met them in the trails with handfuls of this plant, which they seemed to use as often as they were thirsty, in room of water, in the same manner that the natives of tropical countries carry with them on their journeys, stalks of the sugar cane. I several times begged stalks of it from those I met, and found the juice not unpleasant and mildly saccharine. From this or some other plant found on the Lake, the Indians make sugar, or at least a sweet syrup; several Piutes have told me that "Injin make heap a sugar, Sink Carson." If they had not been acquainted with sugar, or something of the same nature, they would not have called it by the English name; au contraire they call it "peehappe."

When we reached the adobe house in which we camped on our outward trip, we found it roofed and inhabited by two young fellows who own an immense hay ranch on the margin of the lake.

Here were some dozen Indians, of assorted sizes, gathered in to prey. Master of the mansion gave the order, and a half-naked young fellow vamosed with admirable celerity, out into the "ragin' billers" of the lake, to fill our canteens. In the meantime we amused ourselves by drinking all the water we could find in the house.

As the chief of the village we had just passed, happened to be here, we told him of his Indians asking money for water. We didn't feel very proud over his reply. He said: "It was a dirty whiteman's trick, and he would see that it was not again repeated." He said that they had caught the idea by seeing water sold at some of the wells on the deserts.

It was now almost dark, but we were determined to travel on till we struck the bend of the slough above where it empties into the lake (Lower Sink) and encamp where we could get drinkable water. It was a long desert road before striking the bend, and ourselves and animals plodded wearily through the darkness.

"Ah! how dark These long-extending realms and rueful wastes Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was rolled together, or had tried its beams Athwart the gloom profound!"

At last we strike upon the spot we are aiming for, and hasten to unpack and light a great fire. We have plenty of dry grease-wood of the average size (about the size, and equally as full of spines as the common gooseberry bush) and have little difficulty in cooking. Our bed is spread on the still hot sand, and almost instantly we hear a thousand tiny trumpets piping about our ears—"mosquitoes! mosquitoes!" we exclaim.

"These are the villains Whom all the travelers do fear so much!"

We cover up head and heels, and pass a most "gay and festive" night--in a horn--or rather, within hearing of many horns; for these blood-thirsty, persistent little fiends were bound to "toot their horn," if they didn't ("sell a fish,") get to tap a vein. In vain we supplicated the Powers Above, and cried out, in most exquisite anguish--"Oh!"

"Chase from my peaceful bed away, The witching spell, a foe to rest, The nightly goblin, wanton fay, The ghost in pain, and fiend unblest—"

but first and foremost chase away these infernal skeeters!

In the morning, soon after the crows had completed their morning duties, we were again pounding sand toward Redman's Station.

As I have already once "said my say" about this delectable "half acre," lying between the Lower Sink and Doc's, I will now suppose that we are at the station, having crossed the Slough on a bridge near the house. This bridge was a toll bridge, but neither Bob or myself had a "red;" the fact is that we "busted" surprisingly "flat" while at Silver Hill. Tom was "smashed" to the same harmonious level, as we well knew, but as he was still behind and would be likely to pass along sometime the next day, we gave the toll-man a most accurate description of him, of his horse and equipments, telling him that he carried the purse and settled all the bills of "the company." "He may be a little contrary and refuse to pay at first," said we, "but if you insist upon it, and give him a good description of us," (here toll-man ran his eye over us, taking a sort of mental "dogertype") "he will probably `come out,'—but you mustn't be too easy, for he's an odd one—stick to him!"

The toll-man promised to do his best, and we "went on our way rejoicing." As that "good old soul," that used to live away down where they "appropriate" forts, mints and men-o'-war, was wont to say:--"if a man is strictly honest, thar's allers a Providence as will pervide."

Mac concluded to stop at Redman's and wait for Mr. Wallace to come up with the wagon. There we parted with him, and saw him no more.

We were now heading for the ancient and well-known city of Ragtown, situated on the north bank of the Carson, some sixteen miles above Redman's. After getting out on the desert (this whole country is a desert, except immediately on the banks of the river) some seven miles, we met Mr. Bob Tyler, of Silver City, and Comstock, bound for Silver Hill. They were suffering for water--not being supplied with canteens--and we relieved them with a part of our stock of the element.

Toward evening our road brought us near a bend in the river, and we turned down it to camp and rest. We had eaten nothing since morning, except a biscuit each at Redman's, and our digestive apparatus seemed conning reminiscences of the flesh-pots of Egypt. We took possession of a deserted Indian house, and found passable grass for the stock. Here we determined to rest until sunset, and then, free from the torture of old Sol's fierce beams, renew the journey.

Soon after we had encamped, a stout buck Indian and his squaw came in from the swamps that here fringe the Carson. The buck carried his "son and heir," while the "wife of his bosom" lugged on her back a huge basket of wild dock seeds—if the boy had been heavier than the basket, this kind-hearted and considerate man would have allowed the squaw to carry him. As the sun was very hot, and as we supposed the house might belong to this couple, we generously invited them to occupy the sunny side of it.

"Thus let us strive to cheer the lonely, lift up the broken heart; In every stage of life be ready to do the noble part."

The "son and heir" was quite light colored—"suspiciously white," the boys thought—though doubtless he was the "pure and unadulterated" Piute. I told the madre feliz what the boys—suspected, and she seized the astonished "son and heir" and holding him toward them, that they might take a "square" and better look. Lord, but she did storm! The buck seemed delighted with her indignation, and when I told them that the boys were only joking, they both laughed heartily. This squaw was very sociable and witty; far sharper than her better half. She was bound to see and understand everything that was going on; in turn was ready to exhibit their household goods and gods for our gratification. We made some discoveries—but none to speak of. We made the whole family happy by giving them a liberal supply of bread as pay for the use of their house. We had killed a species of snipe or plover, called in the Western States the "kill-dee," and while moving about the camp, the Indian woman happened to see it. A look of sadness instantly passed over her face, and she asked: —"Whiteman (waamoogenas) why have you killed the weeping mother?" (vuella mee-mee—ya-ah.) —She seemed to think it a great sin; for they look upon this bird as being one of the Piute tribe. Their reason for this will be found in the following story or legend of the "weeping mother," which I will tell—first, because it may interest the reader in itself, and second, because it contains further evidence of this whole country having once been covered by an inland sea or great lake.

I will tell this story as nearly as possible in the same simple style it was told to me--substituting words of my own, for the broken English and Piute:

LEGEND OF "THE WEEPING MOTHER"

"Long before the fathers of the oldest men now in our tribe, were born, there lived a great chief in this country, whose name was Nattee-Tohaquetta, or White Belt. Then there were no lakes in these valleys, but only springs and brooks. Pahcomomi (pretty) was the most beautiful maiden in the tribe, and the chief loved her above all other women and took her for his wife. In the course of time a daughter was born to them, but the chief was not pleased; he hated the child. He thought his handsome wife no longer cared for him, but had transferred all her love to their child. So, he stole it from her side, one night, and gave it to an old woman, whom he ordered to carry it to a distant part of the valley and keep it hid. In the morning when the mother missed her child and was weeping through the village, Nattee-Tohaquetta told her that a great owl had carried it away during the night, and by this time had eaten it. Pahcomomi did not believe her husband, for she felt sure he had stolen her child away, and had hidden it from her or had killed it. She was in great distress and ran wildly down the valley crying out--"Ona-you, tsooah ah-yea," (Where are you, O! my daughter?) The chief ran after her and brought her back; then he ordered all of his people in that part of the valley to follow him, and they traveled northward many days into the mountains. White Belt now supposed Pahcomomi would forget her daughter and think only of him, but she wept continually, and cried out--"Tsoo-ah ah-yea" (O, my daughter!) When the moon rose above the mountains, she stood on a high hill and stretching out her arms toward it, said: "Ah-you Moo had, edoomame-aa Pah Ah! i-aa gwich goonea." (O, moon, child of the Almighty! give me wings.) "The moon knew all of her troubles, pitied her, and changed her to a beautiful bird, as we see her now, and she flew away toward the valley, crying as she flew--"Ona-you, tsooh-ah ah-yea?"—and to this day she still utters the same cry. Nattee-Tohaquetta—the chief of the White Belt, had crept out to watch his wife, when she went toward the hill, and saw her change to a bird and fly away toward the valley. He hastened to his chief medicine man and asked him to open the fountains of the hills and flood the valley with water that the child might be drowned. The medicine man obeyed, and the valley sunk down with all that was in it, and the waters rushed down from the hills and mountains and covered the whole country for many days' journey around, and all the people remaining in the valley were drowned; also the old woman and Pahcomomi's daughter. When Pahcomomi reached the place where once was spread out a beautiful valley, she found in its place a great lake; as far as the eye could reach there was nothing but water. She flew round and round this great lake, and never ceased flying except to alight and run swiftly along the beach; and never ceased calling for her lost child, day after day and moon after moon. At last the old medicine man died, and the waters suddenly began to fall, and soon the tops of many of the hills of the valley were seen above the water. "Vuella mee-me-ya-ah," (the weeping mother) --flew constantly from hill to hill searching and calling for her daughter Nattee-Tohaquetta, now repented of what he had done, and begged the moon to give him wings that he might join his wife in seeking the lost child. The moon was kind, and he became a great long-legged crane, and is constantly wading along .the lake, peering into the water in search of the lost child; and often the `Weeping mother' is seen running or flying round him, screaming: "O, where is my daughter?' For many, many years they have been seen searching together the shores of the lakes. Every year the waters sink away and the lakes grow shallower and smaller. They will sometime be gone entirely. Then the Weeping Mother will find her lost daughter. Pahcomomi and Nattee-Tohaquetta will then be seen no more."

After sundown we jogged on up the river. The banks of the Carson were now, in many places, perpendicular and about ten feet high. Being composed of a light, loamy soil, they are constantly being undermined by the action of the water against them, and are frequently seen to cave off into the water. We saw the spot where, a few days before, a wagon containing a man and three children, was precipitated a distance of ten feet down into the river by the bank giving way under its weight, the father having incautiously driven too near the brink. Wonderful to relate, the children were all saved by their father's unaided exertions, also the wagon and team, though the water was swift and near fifteen feet in depth. About dusk I was lucky enough to shoot a hare for our breakfast.

As to the looks and "lay" of the country I have been writing of since coming into the neighborhood of the two Sinks of the Carson, imagine the north and south, or upper and lower sinks or lakes, joined together like the glasses of a pair of spectacles, by the stream called the Slough, the course of the stream bearing to the west, and the whole country for miles and miles around these lakes a level waste of sand, alkali, and stunted shrubs; then imagine the Carson River coming down from the west through a belt of the same level desert country from one to eight miles wide, with ranges of rocky hills on its border, and emptying into the west side of the upper or south lake, and you have as good a picture of the country as I could give you by writing an hour.

It was long after dark when we passed through Ragtown, and we could not exactly make out the "lay of the land," but did not succeed in counting the buildings. We found two to be the correct number, one of which appeared to be a stable. The whole town is owned by Mr. Asa Kenyon--including "dips, spurs and angles." About three miles above this place we drove the animals out some fifty yards from the river and up to the summit of a low sand hill, where we unpacked. Driving our stock down the hill, to feed on such pasture as they might find, we spread our blankets among the sand-drifts and making a lunch on a little dry bread we turned in for the balance of the night.

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CHAPTER XII

As I lay on this knoll with the wind whirling the sand over me, and into my hair, ears, and eyes, sad thoughts of months and years spent in the chase of that Will-o'-the-wisp, the "big thing," crowded themselves on my mind, and I was anything but "gay and festive."

Gay and festive? great Mahomet! Who could be "gay" let alone "festive," with his ears full of sand, and the very sand on which he was resting, full of hideous, great scorpions?—then there are centipedes, tarantulas and rattlesnakes by way of variety. I thought of the many long wild-goose-chases I had taken across deserts and over mountains, with the "big thing" dancing complacently along just a little way ahead; or if I imagined I had overtaken it, and made a grab to seize it my hands closed together on empty air--and, on looking about me, behold! the "big thing" still ahead, dancing mockingly on, or, perhaps, turned short about and capering over the identical spot where it had once before eluded my grasp.

How often had I sworn to be deluded no more by this deceitful phantom. But alas, for my resolution! Again this cheat, this fiend! the `big thing"—would squat himself beside my pillow and whisper in my ear:—"Would you have untold bags of gold? would you go home to your people with enough of wealth to make all around you happy? would you surround yourself with friends and books and pictures, and spend the remainder of your days in ease? would you have all these and more? Follow me, follow me; I am, above all others, the "big thing."

Even during my waking hours I was not free. The fiend followed me continually—was ever with me—whispering—"Follow me, follow me; I am, above all others, the 'big thing: "

I could resist no longer. The "big thing" danced merrily before me, over rocky hills, scorching plains and snowy mountains. I followed, bruised and panting, till exhausted I gave up the chase, and the "big thing" still glided and waltzed before and onward.

Now, here am I, once again returning from a fruitless chase after my old friend, that deceitful demon, the "big thing!" Am I ever to be haunted by this fiend's "follow me!" as was Spiel Trosk, the Shetland fisherman, by the mysterious word, "Carmilhan," whispered in his ear by the fiend that wished to entice him to perdition? Will my fiend yet succeed in leading me into some wild, far-off, burning desert and there destroy me, as Trosk's spirit led him to the Nikkur Hole and induced him to plunge down, down into the boiling waves, in search of the treasure of the sunken ship, the long lost, mysterious "Carmilhan?"

Verily, I fear that in spite of all the raillery of my good friends, the "Chriss Mienkels" and "Gustave Guckelsporns," I will continue to follow the fiend till his designs against me are accomplished!

Morning came, as many mornings have doubtless done before, in defiance of the barrenness of the locality. We arose and shook the sand from our hair and beards, as the behemoth might rise from its nap on the grassy bed of the Nile, and—and flop the water out'n his years!!!

[N.B. The conclusion of the preceding paragraph is some of Spudder's work—confound him! I know his hand-writing well! There is the meanest set of bummers about this town I ever saw; a fellow can't drop his pen a moment and run down to Phil's for a glass of lager, but some fellow is mussing about among his papers! Then to have such a climax as—"flop his years" tacked to a pet paragraph and glorified with three exclamation points, is too provoking--he should at least, have mentioned the animal's mane and tail. But, as it is, so it may remain, to Spudder's eternal shame—I say it!)

By the morning light we discovered a large encampment of Indians on the opposite bank of the river. They were already aware of our presence and were gazing wistfully across. Before our fire had been blazing five minutes, their captain was with us, and soon two or three of his men came swimming over with their clothes on their heads. They were all "heap hoggadi" and ready to pitch in and get wood or do anything for a bite of "bistick."

We couldn't do much for them, but as one never loses by being kind to those who are in need, we gave them the bones of our rabbit, after we had gnawed off all the meat we could get without injuring our teeth. "Cast your bread on the waters" etc.; "it is more blessed to give than to"—etc.

While we were at breakfast, two Indians came along with a horse and rabbit net, going up the valley to fish for hare. These nets they weave themselves of twine of their own manufacture from native flax; and fine, even twine, and most excellent nets they make. I know nothing of their mode of taking hare in these nets, but suppose the net to be fastened in an upright position across a neck of land at a bend of the river, and the hare frightened and made to run against it and thrust their heads through the meshes, when owing to the length of their ears they are unable to "back out" of the trap they so easily slipped into. We have known some bipeds caught in the same manner.

About noon we reached a station, kept by a wide-awake, young German, known as the Eight-mile Post. Here we halted to rest and chat with some gentlemen from Carson City, and here we saw a "Pony Extra" and read the first "news of the war" we had seen since leaving home. We were a good deal disappointed, finding the two armies still attitudinizing; we had expected to hear of a great and significant fight between the armies of Uncle Sam and Prince Rupert Secesh. We often talked it over around the camp-fire and had decided that some mighty battle must have been fought, the details of which we would see on reaching the realms of civilization; au contraire, here they were still playing in a most masterly style the old game of defiant attitudes, and thus far the war has been one of gesticulation. First, Prince Rupert Secesh claps his wings, stretches out his neck toward Washington, and crows. Uncle Sam straightens up, shakes his finger at him, and frowns. Prince Rupert goes down to Harper's Ferry and makes an ugly face at Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam retires, shaking his fist. Prince Rupert then seats himself in Harper's Ferry with his thumb on his nose. Uncle Sam turns about and shakes his fist. Uncle Sam now runs down to Arlington Heights and, climbing to the tallest peak, puts his thumbs in his ears and looking across at Prince Rupert, lowers his head and gyrates his fingers; he then jumps down and, running to Alexandria, gives the scalp dance, shaking his fist toward a neighboring hill, over which Prince Rupert is peeping. Prince Rupert now scampers off to Manassas Junction, lifts his head above a rock and sticks out his tongue at Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam shakes his fist and looks savage. Uncle Sam thrusts his tongue into his cheek, shuts one eye and slips off down toward Harper's Ferry, half-bent—pokes up his head on the banks of the Potomac, and makes an ugly face towards Prince Rupert at the Ferry. Prince Rupert gets down on all fours, and presenting to Uncle Sam's astonished eyes a threatening rear, "coons it" over to Manassas.

Near the Station are pleasant groves of cottonwood. I have omitted to mention that there was some of this species of timber on the river, but by turning your head and looking downward toward the sink, where, like a great serpent, the Carson winds through the valley, you will see a thin fringe of these wide branched trees, with a dense undergrowth of willows clinging to its borders and marking its meanderings.

In the shade of one of these spreading trees, near the Post, we noticed three or four prospectors camped for noon, their scarlet blankets strewed on the grass and their mules feeding near. They were evidently bound for Silver Hill. They were in full chase of the "big thing," from following which we were returning disgusted. But miners are a perverse and stiff-necked generation. No matter how many of their brethren fail they are ever ready to rush forward and fill the breach. If there is but one chance to make a fortune to one thousand to be ruined, they are ready to take the chance. "Men may have striven, but never such a man as I."

All this calls to mind the story of Judar, the Turkish fisherman, and the three Mughribins, in their endeavors at catching the coral-red fish of the Birket ul Karun. It was necessary for the Mughribins to possess these red fish in order to secure an immense treasure guarded in a cavern by ferocious fiends. Judar stood on the shore of the lake, with his nets, when a Mughribin approached on a splendidly caparisoned mule.

"Do me the favor," said he to Judar, "to bind my hands with this sash, and cast me into the lake. If, after a short time, you see my hands above the water, cast your nets quickly and draw me out; but should my feet appear, it is sign that I am dead; in that case, the mule is yours, and all he carries."

Judar plumped him into the lake, and in a short time up came his feet; Judar waited to see no more, but mounted the mule, rode him to the market, and sold him for an hundred dinars.

The next day, Judar being again on the shores of the Birket ul Karun, up rode another Mughribin, more richly dressed than the first, who made precisely the same bargain with him, as the one he had drowned the previous day.

Judar pitched him neck and heels into the lake, and, as soon as he saw his feet come up, seized the mule and rode off and sold him, as before, for a hundred dinars.

Judar began to "get stuck after" this paying business of drowning Mughribins, and early the third morning was off to the lake for another job.

A third, more richly dressed than the first two, immediately made his appearance, and Judar, who was getting very handy at the business, made short work with him; but after waiting a short time, he saw his hands raised above the surface.

Judar cast his nets and drew him out. This Mughribin had succeeded; he held in his hand two blood-red fishes!

How many thousands have plunged into the Birket ul Karun of the mines, to search for golden fishes, whose feet have "come up" as a warning to their brethren; yet these brethren, like the brothers "Abdussalim and Abdussamad," are ever ready to allow some Judar to bind their hands and pitch them "head and ears" into the restless waters of the same deceitful lake.

Few, alas! how few, ever "show their hands" above the water. But feet—the warning feet--are thrust out by thousands over all the depths and along all the shoals and inlets of the wide-spreading waters of the treacherous Birket ul Karun of the mines.

Leaving the Eight-mile Post, we took a trail which was to bring us again into the main road at Honey Lake Smith's, nine miles up the river. By this cut-off we saved several miles of desert and sand. During most of the distance, the mountains approached very near to the river, but on nearing Smith's, they receded, leaving a valley some three miles in width. On this cut-off we saw but little worthy of mention, except a singularity in the formation of the hills on either side of the river for a distance of six miles, where they came down near the river. This consisted in their being covered by a coating of sediment, some six inches in thickness, which had cracked, and the lower ends curled up a foot or so from the surface of the hill, as shingles are often seen to do on buildings. This sediment was now, however, solid rock. Passing up the river, I brought down two hare--lucky Dan!

We passed Smith's—formerly William's—Station, and encamped near the river, under the lee of a clump of buffalo wood. Scotty failed to make his appearance. He had lingered at the Eight-mile Post when we started, but said he would overtake us in a few minutes. We have not seen him to this day. What became of him, or where he now is, I have never heard. We saw the spot where the old William's Station was burned last year, by the Piutes, and talked long of the old troublous times, for Bob was in all the wars, first and last, and could say, "there we stood and fired, and yonder stood the Indians."

The sun was sinking low beyond the western sand-hills, when we pitched our camp. The weary horses were turned out to graze, and lighting a fire, we proceeded to examine our larder. We could make one tolerably decent meal; we had three hare, (I shot the third just as we rode into camp) some flour, a little bacon, and just enough coffee left for one meal. We decided on taking coffee for supper, and "running the desperate chances" on getting any for breakfast. The culinary department certainly was not in a salubrious condition--financial, ditto. But we remembered the exhortation of the Psalmist, viz.: "Hold up your head, if the seat of your trowsers drags the ground." How truly we could sing:

"Money of gold, in hoarded store I have none of't--I have none; I live and breathe—I do no more To-day it's a crust, to-morrow a bone."

Just at dark, we started across the Twenty-six-mile desert, intending to go to the well before stopping—a distance of fifteen miles from Honey Lake Smith's. From the effects of the alkali water they had drank, fatigue, or some other cause, our horses were very nearly used up. For the last two days it had been next to impossible to force them to travel faster than a walk, and even then they appeared so weak that we walked a good portion of the way. Our boots were worn out, literally cut to pieces, while in the mountains.

On first getting among the rocks, I lost the heel off one of my boots, and before getting clear of the mountains, the sole was worn down till my bare foot came in contact with the ground; the toes of my boots were also cut through, and gaped, open-mouthed and hungry. In walking in these sandy plains, at every step they scooped full of gravel and sharp sand, which soon cut to pieces, the toes of my stockings, and ground down my toes themselves till they were raw and bleeding.

That night, we found our road unusually bad; the first part being very sandy, and the latter end a mixture of sand, gravel and cobble-stones. We were forced to walk most of the time, as our horses, having torn off their shoes and ground their hoofs down to the quick in the mountains, were very tender footed, and much given to stumbling.

While dragging my reluctant horse over that rugged road, stumbling, and tearing my feet on the loose rocks in the darkness, I did not view the calling of the prospecting miner in the most flattering light. I wished myself once more on the broad prairies of the West.

"How much happier," thought I, "is the lot of the man who tills his little farm of forty acres, surrounded by his family and friends, content with his small but certain gains, than the ragged miner, rushing hither and thither, enduring hunger and thirst, always in a fever of excitement, and never halting for a sure thing of moderate value," (he has been in the country too long to think of that, at this late day) "but ever hurrying, ever hastening his footsteps—on, on to grasp at one swift swoop his eternal fortune in the `big thing."' How true it is that,

"The fountain of fortune But slenderly flows," and equally true, what follows "Wealth got in a moment, As suddenly goes!"

This thing of traveling in the night I am "down on." You go stumbling along, shut out from the pleasure of viewing the surrounding landscape by night's blank, black curtain, and the scope of your vision being contracted and confined to one small, dimly-seen space immediately under you nose, your thoughts soon be-come as contracted, barren and gloomy as the view you are forced to contemplate.

Daylight for me!—whether I journey through blooming meadows or stride deserts, give me daylight! I trust that I am of a nature too merciful to afflict my "deserving reader" with a detailed history of my gloomy night journey on that desert; or of my equally gloomy thoughts. So we will suppose that we are now nearing the well.

We hear the tinkle of a bell on cattle grazing on a range of low hills to our left; our horses understand the meaning of the sound and their step is more elastic; our burro hears and comprehends; he trots briskly forward, causing a lively clatter of tin pans; we all know that the water is near. That water is near!

All! water, water!--that word means much on a desert. It means—Life!

We found the water-trough filled, and when our eager animals had quenched their thirst, Bob took them out on the desert and started them toward the tinkling bell, where we knew there was feed. The well was dug on the edge of the dry basin of an extensive alkali lake and the owners were dwelling near in a board shanty; we spread our blankets on the smooth alkali floor and soon forgot in dreams all of the troubles of this mundane sphere.

"The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labored sense repairs itself by rest."

It was near two o'clock in the morning when we rolled ourselves in our blankets, and it was with swollen, sleepy eyes we wakened when the morning's sun, already fierce in its heat, came streaming along the desert.

This morning—this morning to which we awoke on the borders of this scorching alkali waste!—this morning was the morning of the birthday of INDEPENDENCE to a great people—the birthday of that Goddess most loved by the American people—the birthday of Liberty.

"Oh! could I worship aught beneath the skies, That earth hath seen, or fancy could devise, Thine altar, SACRED LIBERTY! should stand, Built by no mercenary hand: With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair, As ever dress 'd a bank or scented summer air."

While Bob went out to bring in the stock I prepared our breakfast—our Fourth of July breakfast! How many of my readers have made such a breakfast on that morning? I hope, not many. Not that our breakfast was what might be called very poor; but we dear reader, but a pair of weak mortals—American, Union, Fourth-of-July-loving mortals--and we felt, in the inmost recesses of our hearts, (stomachs), that our meal was not suited to the occasion—it wasn't "gay and festive." No, it wasn't, for we broke our fast on one of the toughest old rabbits, of the lord-of-creation gender, that ever caused a hungry, baffled wood-tick to burst his bosom with grief, or tear asunder his tender heart with tears, and—cold slap-jacks, and cold water: "Bright and sparkling water?" No, milky water; water having a strong taste of-of well,—"Kum, plum, gum!"

After noting awhile amid these sumptuous viands, sterner duties claimed our attention. The men who owned the well, wanted "pay for the water we had used"—for the water we had used!—reader think of that. Could we have heard aright? Want pay for water so early on the morning of the birthday of Independence? Want pay for water? Pay for water when our very souls were filled to overflowing with thoughts of "Liberty"—or Death?" "No, never! never!"

Bob and I drew aside and held a sort of council of war; we turned our pockets inside out, looked into our purses among the blankets, into the frying-pan and into the coffee-pot; we were determined not to comply with their demands--that was a point we were both agreed on. Not a cent of money would they get from us!—on this point we were firm. Oh! how firm we were!

"What will we do with these fellows, anyhow? asked Bob; "will we tell them how Tom looks?" I am afraid we will be obliged to—then you know we needn't feel bad to say to them that the head man of the "Company" will be along in a day or two to settle the little bill, for Tom may have got some money by this time --don't you think he might?" We-e-11, yes; I don't know but--that is, certainly! he must have plenty of money by this time, plenty.

"See here, my good fellows," said Bob, suddenly turning to the owners of the well, "about noon to-morrow you will see a tall, somewhat slender and tolerably good-looking man on a cream—"

An idea popped in my head—"No you won't, he won't come this way; my partner was going to have a twenty here in pawn for our—or perhaps you could change it?"

"No, it would be impossible—haven't five dollars in the house!"

"Well, then, the only way I know is to let you have something besides money; we would prefer paying cash if you could make change--and allow me to tell you gentlemen, that you should keep change, as travelers may often be put to great inconvenience--as is the case with ourselves in this instance—by your not being provided with that which is so essential to men engaged in a business of this kind!"

"I am sorry, gentlemen, that we can't make the change; but, perhaps you will be passing this way again soon and—"

"No, not likely; and besides, to square the bill now will best suit us. I think I heard you speak of being out of bacon this morning?—now here is a piece that we can spare, which would cost you twice the amount of your bill in Virginia City--take it!"

The men very gladly closed the bargain.

"I don't see that we have made anything in that operation," said Bob, "the bacon was worth twice what it cost him?"

"Don't see that we have made anything? You surprise me! We've made a great deal! We've made those fellows believe we carry a twenty about our clothes—we've made an impression--we've saved our credit—though I must own that in order to do it we've had to sacrifice "our bacon." But, then, who would ever think of owning that he was "flat broke" on the Fourth of July?"

Several footmen now came up who had left Carson River sometime in the night. They were all nearly choked for water, none of them having taken the precaution to provide themselves with canteens on starting out—an oversight of which they now sorely repented. We were offered twice what ours cost, but we had yet a long stretch of desert to cross before reaching the river and would not have parted with them for five times their value. These fellows were on the track of that foul fiend, the "big thing," which hope whispered they would be likely to overtake in the vicinity of Silver Hill--verily the fiend has much to answer for! Of course they wanted to "know, you know," and we told them. But it was easy to read by the cute cock of their eye--"Men may have striven, but never such a man as I!"

But I must not find fault with these men for turning a deaf ear to everything but the dazzling words of promise whispered into their willing ears, for myself, when under the enchanting spell of the fiend, have been deaf, ever deaf, to all else but his brilliant promises which were continually buzzing through my brain. I myself am not yet strong enough to break the charm of this, the miner's fiend—the "big thing." Every day he whispers in my ear and every night squats himself on my pillow and whispers—`"Fool, why linger here? Arise and follow me!--follow me across the broad, boundless billows of the plains—follow me up the the muddy Missouri, among fierce and bloody red men of Dacotah, to the Shyenne River, to the Devil's Lake—there, among the rugged, rocky mountains, seek and you will find me!"

Great God! am I never to be rid of the demon! Has he already discovered my plan of flying these desert mountains for the promised West; and has he already laid his plans to tear me from my peaceful home, to follow again his flitting shadow through the perils of another and unknown wilderness?

Alas! I fear it. Once a miner, always a miner! I am sold, body and soul, to the demon! In the language of one of Monk Lewis' fiends, I hear him howl in my ear:

"Daniel! Daniel! thou art mine! Daniel! Daniel! I am thine!

In thy veins while blood shall roll, Thou art mine!

I am thine!

Mine thy body! mine thy soul!"

Leaving the well, we started slowly across the basin of the dry lake; our horses were dull; their heads drooped and their eyes were leaden. Heat, thirst, alkali and rugged roads had destroyed all life or spirit.

From where we were jogging along we could look to the west, far off and up among the mountains, and see Virginia City, a mere yellow blotch on a bench of the great peak. Up there we knew was firing of cannon; up there was speech-making; up there was loud cheering; up there was excitement, "bustin" of fire crackers, music, with the Star Spangled Banner and the Fourth of July; but not even the faintest murmur of all this could live till wafted across the far-off desert to our ears. The great yellow blotch was silent—silent as the glaring sky above us; silent as the desert around us--silent as the tomb.

Many who have visited Virginia City will remember that, when entering the town from the south, they saw far off to the east a great, brown plain, bounded on the north-east by a low range of dark hills; and on this plain, near the northwestern point of this range of low, dark hills, a bright, yellow spot resembling a patch of sunshine or a muddy lake. Well, this sunny patch, which you see immediately above—but miles and miles beyond the Sugar Loaf, is the dry basin of the alkali lake (on the northern side of which is the well and our last camp—just where the dim, yellow streak, that marks the emigrant road, leaves the "sunny patch" and winds around and over the point of the low, dark range) over which on that Fourth of July morning, we were toiling.

We met, here, several teams going out to the station at Sand Springs, with flour and barley for the use of the Overland Mail and Telegraph Companies. Just on the edge of the old basin I found a hare sitting in the shade of a sage bush, near the road, sound and fast asleep—he wakened in that region where all defunct, long-eared animals go.

At last we are beyond the arid basin—beyond the brown plain, over a high rocky ridge, and turn toward where we see the green, straggling line of cottonwoods on Carson's shores.

We strike the river at Reed's Station. A long train of loaded mules has just turned down among the trees to the rivers, and the Spanish drivers are busily engaged in jerking off the lashings, lifting off the loads of the tired mules. This train was loaded with salt dug in the dry basin of a lake somewhere on a great desert southeast of Sand Springs. {Not Sand's Spring nor Sand's Station, as many of the papers will have it.]

We rode into the shade of a grove and, loosening the girths of our horses, threw ourselves on the ground to rest. It was noon, they were eating dinner at the Station—the "Fourth of July dinner!" We were hoggadi—heapa hoggadi!

"Bob, do you think they could change that "twenty" here, if we should take dinner?"

"No! I'll bet they can't!—let's have dinner—hey? We will be passing here next week again, perhaps yes, I am certain we will!"

"Well, I ain't, and besides, I am a little acquainted with Reed—it won't do!"

"Well if you're acquainted with him—let's in and dine!"

"Ah! but the trouble is, Bob, that I am not well enough acquainted to turn my face—just well enough acquainted to be a `good fel' when I am in funds and to be told to `git' when `hard up!' "

"Ah!" sighed Bob, that is the way o' the world:

"When fortune smiles, and looks serene, 'Tis—Sir, how do you do? Your family are well, I hope, Can I serve them or you? But turn the scale—let fortune frown, And dills and woes fly t'ye, Tis then--I'm sorry for your loss, But times are hard. Good-by t'ye. "

"Ah! Bob, that's true!—so infernal true that we will be obliged to lose our dinner on this great and ga-lorious Fourth."

We tightened the girths and again took the road up the river toward Chinatown, distant seven miles. As we have already passed over this we will have no more to say of it, only that we found it a lonely, dusty afternoon's travel.

We missed Tom greatly on our travels. He always was the life of our crowd and would spout the "divine Williams" hour in and out; he had a great talent for mimicry and used to give some most laughable burlesque imitations of actors. A dozen times every day he would side up to us, rein in his stud, and throwing himself into a grotesque attitude of puppy pomposity, squeal out in a thin, cracked voice: "My lord, the Duke of Buckingham is in the field!" Then assuming a careless, lazy posture and ill-natured, scrowling look, would growl out in deep, rumbling bass: "Then, let down the bars and turn him out, you villain!"—Aye, Smith-ee you're a droll one!

Arriving at Mineral Rapids, we found that place and Chinatown, all gay and fluttering with the "Red, White and Blue." From numerous tall poles, from the peak of every house and shop, streamed the "Flag of our Union."

At this sight we felt out hearts bound and flutter and something kept coming up into our throats that wanted to "holler." The pulsations of the great American Heart, wafted on the waves of sympathy, communicated their throbbings to my own. I was filled with patriotic emotions, Fourth of July and Star Spangled Banner—and it wanted a chance to "wave."

It was late in the afternoon when we drew up in front of the Mineral Rapids Hotel. We were weary and hungry, and having "stabulated" our "good steeds" went in on a "squar" lunch. The culinary member of the institution had gone to Virginia to get a peep at "the day we celebrate," but the pies, cakes and numerous other things, too "good to mention," in some degree ameliorated the anguish of heart we might otherwise have felt at her absence. Right valiantly did we encounter the perils of the table. No fat and ferocious pullet ambushed within a pot-pie crust, nor frightful pig in war paint, did we fear to encounter. Nay, we "waded in!" We were now where they had heard of us, and we didn't mind "going in on our muscle."

Full of pot-pie and patriotism, we started for Silver City, and thanked our stars that we were now within five miles of home.

Soon after starting, we met an old Piute friend of mine, coming from Silver City.

"Hello, Sam," cried we, "on a-you keemah?—where do you come from?"

"Daa gweekea, Capitan?" How do you do Capitan--"Me heap a come Silver City."

"Silver City, ee-wab-you Waamoogena voo neng?"--is there many people there?

"Oh, ho, ee-wah-you! (a great many), heap a shoot! heap a holler? heap a fight! heap a Fourth July!"

"Well, that is good!"

"No, no good—staak you!"

Here we bid him, "mee ak kweh."

I will here remark that the Piute word "you" has a great variety of meanings; thus, it stands for "it is," "is it," "there it," "is there," you are," "are you," etc.—as, "Ee-wah-you waa-hap,"—there is plenty of grass, "Peezhah-you waa-hap"—it is good grass. "Staah-you nana—you are a bad man etc.

Shortly after bidding the Indian good-bye, a great, tall, strapping fellow hove in sight. He had lost his hat and a handkerchief was bound round his head; his face was covered with blood and his straggling locks stiffened with the same; altogether, he was as ruffianly, piratical-looking a customer (hope he won't see this) as you would see "in a long summer day."

"How d'ye do," cried he seizing on Bob's hand, and shaking it furiously. "How'd ye do, fellers, allers glad to meet a fren, you know! I dun know who a h—l you are, but do know yer my fren —you're a goo' fel—you are!"

Bob shook him off and asked him the news, by way of ridding himself of the caresses of the affectionate fellow.

"Offal news! dreffel news! I've jis cut a man all to pieces up town! Cut his throat from one ear to-er-rrother! Sam Brown saved me though; Sam zaved me! He got me out'er crowd'n zed ver me to run. I think a heap o' Sam, I do, Zam's goo' fel'"

We pushed on and left him, but had gone but a few rods before he set up such a tremendous screeching that we halted to know what he wanted: "Zay, are fels! zee 'ere, if'er zee Zam Brown jis giv 'im mi specks, will ee? Zay too 'im d'that I zay 'ee's goo' fel'—zat I think 'er 'eap of 'im!"

I note down this little incident, to show that "Fighting Sam Brown," the terror of the Eastern Slope, had at least one friend.

At last we are in sight of Silver City. The "long may-it-wave" was to be seen floating from dozens of poles and from the peak of every mill and business house; the town was a-blaze with the National colors.

Ah! it was a refreshing sight to us wanderers of the desert! Our hearts beat time to the flutter of Our flag. Again that "something" came up in our throats and the first we knew it hollered. We found plenty of our old friends ready to extend a warm hand of welcome; were joked about our sun-burned faces and ragged exteriors, (friend Typo, be sure to put that ex-terior, mind your p's and q's—especially your p's) and all the news was given us in detail of the doings and sayings of the town.

At night, Jones and I go up town to hear the "Kannins Rore," and see the fireworks let off. We stood for a long time in silence, watching divers and sundry splendid rockets dart upward in fiery haste toward the blue dome, etc., when Jones broke the silence:

"I wish," said he, "I were a rocket."

"Good Heavens! Jones, what on earth should cause you to make such a wish? You're excited, Jones. Jones, I beg of you be calm, be cool, be as you see me! I fear your excitable temper will yet ruin your brain; `the day we celebrate' has been too much for you. But why do you wish yourself a rocket?"

`Because, said Jones, "I could then make a raise."

"Oh, Jones!" I cried, completely unnerved and near fainting, "Oh, Jones! Jones! you have killed me! I shall never smile again."

Jones took the hint, and hastening to the nearest saloon, we both smiled—several times.

I don't know but we—that is, I mean, Jones—became too good-natured.

Said Jones—in answer to some very cogent reason I was giving why the comet, then flaming in the north-western sky, had a tail growing out of its head and no tail to its tail--"Bawld'n keeps a bes' branny of any fel-elyer in town; I b'lieve—enhow's er bigges'!"

"No, tain't" said I. "I know ware's Dush feller's got sum—sum's heap bigger!--its very bigges' branny 'n t'down. I see er big st' dont man t'orrer day strr-ruggle worse way to take down two bi's wort an' wen-er got 't down save us soul he could'n keep 't down!"

And of such is "the day we celebrate."

Now as I am safely housed in my casa, and for fear of "making bad worse," I will close these long rambling, zigzag sketches, with my best wishes to my brethren, and sisters of the ERA—that is if they will acknowledge me as being one of their band of Eraites!—and my thanks to my much afflicted, yet, "deserving reader"—I hope for his sake there may be some truth in the text which reads: "Blessed is he that holds out faithful to

THE END."