This morning we reached the main stream of the long looked for Humboldt.
The crossing was bad, the water being deep and the banks steep, though
the stream is but about eight yards wide. The valley opens broad and
affords a very extensive view of the country in advance of us. On our
right rise the Humboldt Mountains, whose summits are covered with snow.
The last rays of the setting sun are now lending to their spotless
mantle a warm, rosy glow. One by one the lofty peaks lose their
transient splendor, and outline after outline loses its distinctness in
the sombre hues of evening. No timber in sight, except a little
underbrush by the river. Today we passed a new-made grave, in which
sleeps the last sleep of an emigrant who was shot a few days ago by an
Indian, while on guard. Indians were about for the purpose of stealing
horses and really did succeed in capturing one while the mounted guard
was receiving the attention of the whole company. The fatal arrow was
poisoned. This murder will raise great animosity against the Indians and
the future emigrant, as he passes by the grave of his murdered
countryman, will feel a spirit of revenge. The Root Diggers infest this
region, a most savage and degraded tribe. Distance, twenty miles.