BY MAC A'RONY.
How he trots along on his mule! I declare the beast's ears are
not so long as his master's.--_The Hunchback of Notre Dame._
The supreme moment of my life had "arrove." Must have come on
Skates. I had crossed the broad continent at last--all but a
little toboggan-slide of one hundred and fifty miles, more or
less, and that would be easy sailing. I felt boastful now. When
Pod wasn't occupied in prodding me over the pass he was quoting
"Hannibal Crossing the Alps" and other heroic adventurers,
imagining his little exploit of the same class. Prof., old boy,
just bear in mind that hobo Hannibal was not so fortunate as to
have five gullible jackasses to help him.
The storm had abated. As I stood waist-deep in snow while the
men-folks were trying to waken the sleepers of an uninhabited
shanty, I looked back where we donks sang "One More Mountain to
Cross" for the last time, and I gave three brays with a gusto.
Standing in snow or water taxes my patience. Coxey brayed to the
men to "get a move on," but Skates and I amused ourselves by
sucking icicles hanging from our bangs. Pod's courageous valet
received first orders. He rode an avalanche bareback down the
mountain and went through the door without knocking until he hit
the other side of the shanty.
"Don't shoot, for heaven's sake, folks;" he yelled. No answer.
"Beg thousand pardons, friends, but couldn't stop," he added. No
answer. Then he picked himself up and called. "Ain't nobody livin'
here? Speak up, I won't hurt you." No answer. The next thing that
boy did was to find the lantern he had lost in the snow slide, and
explore the place.
"The cabin's empty," he called presently.
"Any stove and fuel?" Pod asked.
"Yep," answered Coonskin, "and a hay tick,
and-waow-w-w-w!!!--!--!--!--!--spook! Scat you!--and a gol blasted
cat," he added. "Folks must've left just before the storm." Then
to the dog he called, "Here, Don, sick'em--cats!" and Don sicked.
My elated master next ordered Skates to slide down that chute to
the cabin, and she shooted. He hinted that Coxey and I would
follow, but I wasn't so sure. Judging from Coonskin's experiment,
it looked too swift for my blood. But when I witnessed Skates
safely descend and heard Coxey's whisper, "Come on, Mac, show your
nerve," I was bound to stay with it and follow suit.
We donks no sooner reached the door than Pod began to unpack us.
It was no go. Knots and buckles, everything was frozen stiff; my
saddle felt glued to my back.
"We must fire up, and thaw them out," said Pod, and he led us in
doors. Coonskin converted some shelves into kindling, and soon the
little stove was roaring like a coke oven. When we began to thaw,
one by one the ropes and straps were unhitched, or cut, until we
were all relieved of our burdens--and part of our avoirdupois.
Although the men had tramped almost all the way from Carson in
order to spare us, our wrenching and twisting in climbing the
slippery summits had loosened our saddles, which rubbed into our
shoulders until we were badly galled. Our proud flesh had frozen
to the icy blankets, and when Pod, while near the stove saw our
conditions great tears melted in his eyes, and he rubbed my
frosted nose, I suppose expecting me to purr. We got thawed out by
three in the morning.
That small apartment depicted a busy scene. We donks were so
cramped that we couldn't turn if we had tried. While Coonskin
dried the bedding, the Prof found in the luggage a box of tar, and
gave us a good plastering. Then he put us in the other room,--it
was a two-room house,--and fed us the hay tick, and a wooden soap
box for dessert, and bade us good-night.
I heard Coonskin mention something about supper, but Pod told him
all the grub was cachéd in the snow over the summit and that
Damfino carried the keys; there was, however, a possible chance of
getting a bite later if he would go back for the supplies. Soon
after I heard both men snoring.
As I recall the circumstance, I don't see how we three donks stood
it, cramped up in that small room, eight long hours before the men
got up. First we ate the hay tick; the hay went fast enough, but
it took time to chew the tick. Then we gnawed soap box until dawn.
The latter was savory, but rather tough, and had to be eaten
slowly on account of the bones--nails, Pod called them--which
would get into our teeth. Coxey happened to swallow one, and said
he wouldn't lie down for a week for fear of puncturing himself.
Every time one of us gnawed on the box Don barked, taking it to be
mice. He lay under Coxey with one eye open, ready to vacate at a
second's warning, for that donk pretended he was going to lie down
every moment.
We breathed the air of that cell ten times over, and had begun on
the eleventh course when the door opened. What a magnificent pair
of spectacles was open to our eyes! The mountains on both sides of
the canyon looked like great billows of a frozen sea, while the
fir trees sticking out of the snow resembled the spars of sunken
wrecks with their torn sails frozen to the yardarms.
Coonskin was up first. While dressing he happened to glance out of
the window and his tell-tale exclamation caused Pod to leap out of
bed.
"Well! In the name of Balaam, if there ain't Damfino!" he laughed.
"She's a nervy dame," observed the youth with satisfaction. "She
knows the other donks are here, all right."
Curiosity led me to stick my head out of the door, and there,
knee-deep in snow, stood the old girl, patiently waiting for an
invite to our house party. Skates had to be taken up to pilot down
the half-starved, half-frozen, timid refugee. Damfino slipped on
the way but collected herself, and the "girls" whispered something
to each other, which I could not catch, and laughed. I suppose it
was a joke, so I got off an old one to Coxey, and he brayed with
merriment. Then I told it to Pod, and he gave it to Coonskin, who
snorted like a colt over a horse chestnut.
As soon as Damfino was unloaded the men got breakfast. The dishes
washed and our galls redressed with tar and cotton wool, our
shoulders were padded for the saddles, and we were packed for the
journey. Two o'clock swung around before we got up that
toboggan-slide. Once there, we stopped for wind, then began to
plow snow toward Placerville.
It was a beautiful day, but the glare of the sun on the snow made
us shed tears. Not a sound jarred the air, except the swish-swash
of our pedals hewing away the snow, or an occasional asinine
sneeze, or canine cough, the result of a night's exposure. At the
steep and narrow turn where the stage driver nearly spilled Horace
Greeley trying to take him through on pony-express time, I became
interested, and the spot where Sawlog Johnson was crushed to death
by a giant tree falling on his shadow riveted my attention for
some time. I thought it a good place to rest; the trees were bent
by the heavy snow and ice, and I knew lightning never struck twice
in the same spot.
We reached Hart's shingle camp long after dark. Pod and I were
cordially received and entertained. When about to resume travel
next morning the drove of cattle which we were urged to wait for
passed us. They had crossed the summit in quick time, of course,
after we donks had broken the trail.
Now only small patches of snow dotted the roadside, and we had a
muddy trail down to the Bridge house. The keeper gave Pod a round
reception, and charged him an all-round sum. We left early next
morning.
The scenery on that mountain trail was a thing to out-last a
donkey's memory. One sheer cliff rising a thousand feet marks the
site of a bold exploit. It is said that once upon a time Snowshoe
Thompson, while out hunting above this cliff, was chased by a
grizzly, and only escaped by leaping off the precipice and
striking the frozen river on his snow-shoes, the momentum taking
him down to Sacramento, seventy miles away. On that cliff was
afterwards found a grizzly of 1,220 pounds dead weight with a
hunting knife in his heart. It was the coroner's verdict that the
bear was so astonished at the fearless hunter's brave act that he
committed suicide with the knife the hunter dropped in his hurry.
Although it was near to November, the foliage of the trees was
barely colored. The climate of California charmed me. We were
making fast time down grade, in spite of our jaded condition, and
we did not tarry for lunch. When Placerville hove in sight I was a
most tickled donk. Just one minute after dark we ambled into town,
and were escorted to the famous spot where Horace Greeley first
stepped on California soil.