CHAPTER XIII._The City of the Saints, and Across the Rocky Mountains to California

To Carson Valley.

Before resuming the Itinerary, it may be advisable briefly to describe

the various tribes tenanting this Territory.

We have now emerged from the Prairie Indians, the Dakotah, Crow, Kiowa,

Comanche, Osage, Apache, Cheyenne, Pawnee, and Arapaho. Utah Territory

contains a total of about 19,000 souls of two great kindred races,

the Shoshonee or Snake, and the Yuta, called Uche by the Spaniards

and Ute by the Anglo-American trappers. Like the Comanche and Apache,

the Pimas, the Lipans, and the people of the Pueblos, they are of the

Hispano-American division, once subject to the Conquistadores, and

are bounded north by the Pánák[228] (Bannack) and the once formidable

Blackfeet. The Shoshonee own about one third of the Territory; their

principal settlements lie north of the Great Salt Lake, and on the line

of the Humboldt or Mary River, some 400 miles west, and 100 to 125

south of the Oregon line. They number about 4500 souls, and are wildest

in the southeast parts of their motherland. The Yuta claim the rest of

the Territory between Kansas, the Sierra Nevada, New Mexico, and the

Oregon frontier. Of course the two peoples are mortal foes, and might

be well pitted against each other. The Snakes would form excellent

partisan warriors.

[228] The Panak is a small tribe of 500 souls, now considered

dangerous: the greater part resides in Oregon, the smaller about

ninety miles in the N.E. of the Territory, where they hunt the bison

and the elk. For thirty years they have traded with Fort Bridger, and

when first known they numbered 1200 lodges. “Horn,” their principal

chief, visited the place in April, 1858. Mr. Forney, the late

Superintendent of Indian Affairs in Utah Territory, granted them a

home in the lands of Washaki, and they have intermarried and lived

peaceably with the Shoshonee.

The Shoshonee number fourteen tribes regularly organized; the

principal, which contains about 12,000 souls, is commanded by Washaki,

assisted, as usual, by sub-chiefs, four to six in number. Five bands,

numbering near 1000 each, roam about the mountains and kanyons of Great

Salt Lake County, Weber, Bear, Cache, and Malad Valleys, extending

eighty miles north from the Holy City. These have suffered the most

from proximity with the whites, and no longer disdain agriculture. One

band, 150 to 180 in number, confines itself to the North Californian

Route from Bear and Malad Valleys to the Goose-Creek Mountains. Seven

bands roam over the country from the Humboldt River to 100 miles south

of it, and extend about 200 miles from east to west: the principal

chief, Wanamuka, or “the Giver,” had a band of 155 souls, and lived

near the Honey Lake.

The Yuta claim, like the Shoshonee, descent from an ancient people

that immigrated into their present seats from the northwest. During

the last thirty years they have considerably decreased according to

the mountaineers, and have been demoralized mentally and physically by

the emigrants: formerly they were friendly, now they are often at war

with the intruders. As in Australia, arsenic and corrosive sublimate in

springs and provisions have diminished their number. The nation is said

to contain a total of 14,000 to 15,000 souls, divided into twenty-seven

bands, of which the following are the principal:

The Pá Yuta (Pey Utes) are the most docile, interesting, and powerful,

containing twelve bands;[229] those in the west of the Territory,

on the Humboldt River, number 6000, and in the south 2200 souls;

they extend from forty miles west of Stony Point to the Californian

line, and northwest to the Oregon line, and inhabit the valley of the

Fenelon River, which, rising from Lake Bigler, empties itself into

Pyramid Lake. The term means Water Yuta, that is to say, those who live

upon fish which they take from lakes and rivers in wiers and traps

of willow, preferring that diet to roots, grass-seed, lizards, and

crickets, the food of the other so-called Digger tribes.

[229] These are, 1. Wanamuka’s; 2. San Joaquim, near the forks

of that river in Carson Valley, numbering 170; 3. Hadsapoke, or

Horse-stopper band, of 110, in Gold Kanyon, on Carson River; 4. Wahi

or Fox band, on Big Bend of Carson River, 130 in number; 5. and 6.

Odakeo, “Tall-man band,” and Petodseka, “White-Spot band,” round the

lakes and sinks of the Carson and Walker Rivers, numbering 484 men,

372 women, and 405 children; 7. Tosarke, “Gray-head band,” their

neighbors; 8. Tonoziet, “Woman-helper band,” on the Truckee River,

below Big Meadows, numbering 280 souls; 9. Torape, or “Lean-man

band,” on the Truckee River, near Lone Crossing, 360 souls; 10.

Gonega, the “Dancer band,” 290 souls, near the mouth of the Truckee

River; 11. Watsequendo, the “Four Crows,” along the shores of Pyramid

Lake, 320 souls; 12. The second Wanamuka’s band, 500 in number, along

the shores of the Northern Mud Lake.

[THE GOSH YUTA, ETC.]

Gosh Yuta, or Gosha Ute, is a small band, once _protégés_ of the

Shoshonee, who have the same language and limits. Their principal chief

died about five years ago, when the tribe was broken up. A body of

sixty, under a peaceful leader, were settled permanently on the Indian

farm at Deep Creek, and the remainder wandered 40 to 200 miles west of

Great Salt Lake City. Through this tribe our road lay; during the late

tumults they have lost fifty warriors, and are now reduced to about 200

men. Like the Ghuzw of Arabia, they strengthen themselves by admitting

the outcasts of other tribes, and will presently become a mere banditti.

Pavant, or Parovan Yuta, are a distinct and self-organized tribe, under

one principal and several sub-chiefs, whose total is set down at 700

souls. Half of them are settled on the Indian farm at Corn Creek; the

other wing of the tribe lives along Sevier Lake, and the surrounding

country in the northeast extremity of Fillmore Valley, fifty miles from

the city, where they join the Gosh Yuta. The Pavants breed horses, wear

clothes of various patterns, grow grain, which the Gosh Yutas will not,

and are as brave and improvable as their neighbors are mean and vile.

Timpenaguchyă,[230] or Timpana Yuta, corrupted into Tenpenny Utes, who

dwell about the kanyon of that name, and on the east of the Sweetwater

Lake. Of this tribe was the chief Wakara, who so called himself after

Walker, the celebrated trapper; the notorious horse-stealer proved

himself a friend to the Latter-Day Saints. He died at Meadow Creek,

six miles from Fillmore City, on the 29th of January, 1855, and at his

obsequies two squaws, two Pa Yuta children, and fifteen of his best

horses composed the “customs.”

[230] In the Yuta language meaning “water among the stones.”

Uinta Yuta, in the mountains south of Fort Bridger, and in the country

along the Green River. Of this tribe, which contains a total of

1000, a band of 500, under four chiefs, lately settled on the Indian

reservations at Spanish Fork.

Sampichyă, corrupted, to San Pete Utas; about eighty warriors, settled

on the Indian farm at San Pete. This and the Spanish-Fork Farm number

900 inhabitants.

Elk-Mountain Yutas, who are set down at 2000 souls, by some even 3000;

they wander over the southeast portion of the Territory, and, like the

Uinta Yutas, are the most independent of white settlers.

Weber-River Yutas are those principally seen in Great Salt Lake City;

they are a poor and degraded tribe. Their chief settlement is forty

miles to the north, and, like the Gosh Yutas, they understand Shoshonee.

Among the Yutas are reckoned the Washoe, from 500 to 700 souls. They

inhabit the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada, from Honey Lake to

the West Fork of Walker’s River in the south. Of this troublesome

tribe there are three bands: Captain Jim’s, near Lake Bigler, and

Carson, Washoe, and Eagle Valleys, a total of 342 souls; Pasuka’s band,

340 souls, in Little Valley; and Deer Dick’s band, in Long Valley,

southeast of Honey Lake. They are usually called Shoshoko,[231] or

“Digger Indians”--a term as insulting to a Shoshonee as nigger to an

African.

[231] It is said to mean “one who goes on foot.”

Besides the Parawat Yutas, the Yampas, 200-300 miles south, on the

White River; the Tabechyă, or Sun-hunters, about Tête de Biche, near

Spanish lands; and the Tash Yuta, near the Navajoes: there are scatters

of the nation along the Californian road from Beaver Valley, along the

Santa Clara, Virgen, Las Vegas, and Muddy Rivers to New Mexico.

The Indian Bureau of Utah Territory numbers one superintendent, six

agents, and three to six farm-agents. The annual expenditure is set

down at $40,000; the Mormons declare that it is iniquitously embezzled,

and that the total spent upon the Indians hardly exceeds $1000 per

annum. The savages expect blankets and clothing, flour and provisions,

arms and ammunition: they receive only a little tobacco, become surly,

and slay the settlers. It is understood that the surveyor general has

recommended to the federal government the extinction of the Indian

title--somewhat upon the principle of the English in Tasmania[232] and

New Zealand--to grounds in the Utah Territory, and the establishment

of a land-office for the sale of the two millions of acres already

surveyed. Until the citizens can own their farms and fields under the

existing pre-emption laws, and until the troublesome Indians can be

removed by treaty to reservations remote from white settlements, the

onward march of progress will be arrested. The savage and the civilized

man, like crabbed age and youth, like the black and gray rat, can not

live together: the former starves unless placed in the most fertile

spots, which the latter of course covets; the Mormons attempt a peace

policy, but the hunting-grounds are encroached upon, and terrible

massacres are the result. Here, as elsewhere, the battle of life is

fiercely fought. It has been said,

“Man differs more from man

Than beast from beast.”

Yet every where we trace the mighty resemblance.

[232] Van Diemen’s Land, in the days of Captain Flinders (A.D.

1800, two generations ago), had a population of 100,000 souls, now

well-nigh annihilated by strong waters and corrosive sublimate.

Neither man nor woman was safe in the vicinity of a native tribe;

the Anglo-Scandinavian race thus found it necessary to wipe out a

people that could not be civilized--a fair instance of the natural

selection of species. And New Zealand now threatens to walk the path

of Tasmania.

[THE INDIAN FARMS.]

The three principal farms which now form the nuclei of future

reservations are those at Spanish Fork, San Pete, and Corn Creek. The

two latter have often been denuded by the grasshopper; the former has

fared better. Situated in Utah Valley, under the shelter of lofty

Nebo, it extends northward within four miles of the Sweetwater Lake,

and on the northeast is bounded by the Spanish-Fork Creek, rich in

trout and other fish. It was begun five years ago for the Yutas, who

claim the land, and contains a total of 13,000 acres, of which 500

have been cultivated; 900 have been ditched to protect the crop,

and 1000 have been walled round with a fence six feet high. Besides

other improvements, they have built a large adobe house and two rail

corrals, and dug dams and channels for irrigation, together with a

good stone-curbed well. Under civilized superintendence the savages

begin to labor, and the chiefs aspire to erect houses. Yet the crops

have been light, rarely exceeding 2500 bushels. San Pete Farm, in the

valley and on the creek of the same name, lies 150 miles south of Great

Salt Lake City; it supports, besides those who come for temporary

assistance, a band of thirty souls; 200 acres have been planted with

wheat and potatoes, two adobe houses and a corral have been made, and

irrigating trenches have been dug. Corn-Creek Farm, in Fillmore Valley,

was begun about four years ago; 300 acres have been broken up, several

adobe houses have been built for the Indians and the farm agent, with

the usual adjuncts, corral and fences. The crickets and grasshoppers

have committed sad havoc among the wheat, corn, and potatoes. It is

now tenanted by a Pahvant chief. The Uinta Farm is near Fort Bridger.

Those lately opened in Deep Creek and Ruby Valleys have this year lain

fallow in consequence of Indian troubles; the soil, however, is rich,

and will produce beets, potatoes, onions, turnips, and melons. It is

proposed to place the Pa Yutas and Washoes in the Truckee Meadows, on

the lands “watered by the majestic Kuyuehup, or Salmon-Trout River,”

where, besides fish and piñon forests, there are 15,000 acres fit for

cultivation and herding. The Indian agents report that the cost will be

$150,000, from which the Mormons deduct at least two 0’s.

[THE YUTAS.]

The Yuta, though divided into many tribes and bands, is a distinct

race from its prairie neighbors, speaking a single _langue mère_ much

diversified by dialect. They are a superstitious brood, and have many

cruel practices--human sacrifices and vivisepulture--like those of

Dahomey and Ashantee. Their religion is the usual African and Indian

fetichism, that germal faith which, under favorable influences and

among higher races, developed itself by natural means--or as explained

by a mythical, distinct, and independent revelation--into the higher

forms of Judaism, Christianity, and El Islam. In the vicinity of the

Mormons many savages have been baptized, and have become nominal

Saints. They divide white men into Shwop or Americans and Mormons.

Their learned men have heard of Washington, but, like the French

peasant’s superstition concerning Napoleon, they believe him to be

still alive. They have a name for the Book of Mormon, and have not

learned, like their more civilized Eastern neighbors, to look upon

it as the work of Mujhe Manitou, the bad god, who, like Wiswakarma

of the Hindoos, amuses himself by caricaturing and parodying the

creatures of the good god. They are not cannibals--the Wendigo is a

giant man-eater of a mythologic type, not an actual anthropophage--but,

like all Indians, especially those of New England, they “feel good”

after eating a bit of the enemy, a natural display of destructiveness:

they will devour the heart of a brave man to increase their courage,

or chop it up, boil it in soup, engorge a ladleful, and boast they

have drunk the enemy’s blood. They are as liable to caprice as their

Eastern neighbors. A prisoner who has distinguished himself in battle

is as often dismissed unhurt as porcupined with arrows and killed

with cruel tortures; if they yield in ingenuity of inflicting pain

to the Algonquins and Iroquois, it is not for want of inclination,

but by reason of their stupidity. Female captives who fall into their

hands are horribly treated; I was told of one who, after all manner of

atrocities, scalping included, escaped with life. They have all the

savage’s improvidence; utility is not their decalogue. Both sexes,

except when clothed by a charitable Mormon, are nearly naked, even

in the severest weather; they sleep in sleet and snow unclothed,

except with a cape of twisted rabbits’ furs and a miserable attempt

at moccasins, lined with plaited cedar bark: leggins are unknown,

even to the women. Their ornaments are vermilion, a few beads, and

shell necklaces. They rarely suffer from any disease but rheumatism,

brought on by living in the warm houses of the whites, and various

consequences of liver complaint, produced by overgorging: as with

strong constitutions generally, they either die at once or readily

recover. They dress wounds with pine gum after squeezing out the blood,

and their medicine-men have the usual variety of savage nostrums. In

the more desert parts of the Territory they are exceedingly destitute.

South of Cedar City, even ten years ago they had fields of wheat

and corn of six acres each, and supported emigrants; some of them

cultivate yearly along the stream-banks peas, beans, sweet potatoes,

and squashes. They live upon the flesh of the bear, elk, antelope, dog,

wolf, hare, snake, and lizard, besides crickets, grasshoppers, ants,

and other vermin. The cactus leaf, piñon nut, and various barks; the

seed of the bunch-grass and of the wheat or yellow grass, somewhat

resembling rye; the rabbit-bush twigs, which are chewed, and various

roots and tubers; the soft sego bulb, the rootlet of the cat-tail flag,

and of the tule, which, when sun-dried and powdered to flour, keeps

through the winter, and is palatable even to white men, conclude the

list of their dainties. When these fail they must steal or starve, and

the dilemma is easily solved, to the settler’s cost.

The Yutas in the vicinity of the larger white settlements continually

diminish; bands of 150 warriors are now reduced to 35. Some of the

minor tribes in the southern part of the Territory, near New Mexico,

can scarcely show a single squaw, having traded them off for horses and

arms; they go about killing one another, and on kidnapping expeditions,

which farther diminish the breed. The complaint which has devastated

the South Sea Islands rages around the City of the Saints, and extends

to the Rio Virgen. In six months six squaws were shot by red Othellos

for yielding their virtue to the fascinations of tobacco, whisky, and

blankets; the Lotharios were savage as well as civilized. The operation

of courting is performed by wrapping a blanket round one’s beloved; if

she reciprocates, it is a sign of consent. A refusal in these lands is

often a serious business; the warrior collects his friends, carries

off the recusant fair, and, after subjecting her to the insults of all

his companions, espouses her. There is little of the shame which Pliny

attributes to the “Barrus.” When a death takes place they wrap the body

in a skin or hide, and drag it by the leg to a grave, which is heaped

up with stones as a protection against wild beasts. They mourn till

the end of that moon, allow a month to elapse, and then resume their

lamentations for another moon: the interval is gradually increased till

the grief ends. It is usual to make the dead man’s lodge appear as

desolate as possible.

The Yuta is less servile, and, consequently, has a higher ethnic status

than the African negro; he will not toil, and he turns at a kick or

a blow. The emigrant who addresses him in the usual phrase, “D--

your eyes, git out of the road or I’ll shoot you!” is pretty sure to

come to grief. Lately the Yutas demanded compensation for the use of

their grass upon the Truckee River, when the emigrants fired, killing

Wanamuka the chief. After the death of two or three whites, Mayor

Ormsby, of the militia at Carson Valley, took the field, was decoyed

into a kanyon by Indian cunning, and perished with all his men.

_To “Chokop’s” Pass. 8th October, 1860._

The morning was wasted in binding two loose tires upon their respective

wheels; it was past noon before we were _en route_. We shook hands

cordially with Uncle Billy, whose generosity--a virtue highly prized by

those who, rarely practicing, expect it to be practiced upon them--has

won for him the sobriquet of the “Big-hearted Father.” He had vainly,

however, attempted to rescue my silver pen-holder, whose glitter was

too much for Indian virtue. Our route lay over a long divide, cold but

not unpicturesque, a scene of light-tinted mountain mahogany, black

cedar, pure snowy hill, and pink sky. After ten miles we reached the

place where the road forks; that to the right, passing through Pine

Valley, falls into the gravelly ford of the Humboldt River, distant

from this point eighty to eighty-five miles. After surmounting the

water-shed we descended over bench-land into a raw and dreary plain, in

which greasewood was more plentiful than sage-bush. “Huntingdon Valley”

is traversed by Smith’s Fork, which flows northward to the Humboldt

River; when we crossed it it was a mere rivulet. Our camping-ground

was at the farther end of the plain, under a Pass called after the

chief Chokop; the kanyon emitted a cold draught like the breathing

caves of Kentucky. We alighted at a water near the entrance, and found

bunch-grass, besides a little fuel. After two hours the wagon came up

with the stock, which was now becoming weary, and we had the usual

supper of dough, butter, and coffee. I should have slept comfortably

enough upon a shovel and a layer of carpet-bags had not the furious

south wind howled like the distant whooping of Indians.

_To the Wilderness again. 9th October._

The frosty night was followed by a thaw in the morning. We hastened

to ascend Chokop’s Pass by a bad, steep dugway: it lies south of

“Railroad Kanyon,” which is said to be nearly flat-soled. A descent

led into “Moonshine,” called by the Yutas Pahannap Valley, and we saw

with pleasure the bench rising at the foot of the pass. The station is

named Diamond Springs, from an eye of warm, but sweet and beautifully

clear water bubbling up from the earth. A little below it drains

off in a deep rushy ditch, with a gravel bottom, containing equal

parts of comminuted shells: we found it an agreeable and opportune

bath. Hard work had begun to tell upon the temper of the party.

The judge, who ever preferred monologue to dialogue, aweary of the

rolling prairies and barren plains, the bald and rocky ridges, the

muddy flats, saleratus ponds, and sandy wastes, sighed monotonously

for the woodland shades and the rustling of living leaves near his

Pennsylvanian home. The marshal, with true Anglo-American impetuosity,

could not endure Paddy Kennedy’s “slow and shyure” style of travel;

and after a colloquy, in which the holiest of words were freely used

as adjectives, participles, and exclamations, offered to fight him

by way of quickening his pace. The boys--four or five in number--ate

for breakfast a quarter of beef, as though they had been Kaffirs or

Esquimaux, and were threatened with ration-cutting. The station folks

were Mormons, but not particularly civil: they afterward had to fly

before the savages, which, perhaps, they will be pleased to consider a

“judgment” upon them.

Shortly after noon we left Diamond Springs, and carried on for a

stretch of seven miles to our lunching-ground, a rushy water, black

where it overlies mud, and bluish-green where light gravel and shells

form the bottom: the taste is sulphury, and it abounds in confervæ

and animalculæ like leeches and little tadpoles. After playing a tidy

bowie-knife, we remounted, and passed over to the rough divide lying

westward of Moonshine Valley. As night had closed in, we found some

difficulty in choosing a camping-place: at length we pitched upon a

prairillon under the lee of a hill, where we had bunch-grass and fuel,

but no water. The wind blew sternly through the livelong night, and

those who suffered from cramps in cold feet had little to do with the

“sweet restorer, balmy sleep.”

_To Sheawit Creek. 10th October._

[SHEAWIT CREEK.]

At 6 A.M. the mercury was sunk only to 29° F., but the elevation and

rapid evaporation, with the fierce gusty wind coursing through the

kanyon, rendered the sensation of cold painful. As usual on these

occasions, “George,” our chef, sensibly preferred standing over the

fire, and enwrapping himself with smoke, to the inevitable exposure

incurred while fetching a coffee-pot or a tea-kettle. A long divide,

with many ascents and descents, at length placed in front of us a view

of the normal “distance”--heaps of hills, white as bridal cakes, and,

nearer, a sand-like plain, somewhat more yellow than the average of

those salt-bottoms: instinct told us that there lay the station-house.

From the hills rose the smokes of Indian fires: the lands belong to

the Tusawichya, or White-Knives, a band of the Shoshonees under an

independent chief. This depression is known to the Yutas as Sheawit, or

Willow Creek: the whites call it, from Mr. Bolivar Roberts, the Western

agent, “Roberts’ Springs Valley.” It lies 286 miles from Camp Floyd:

from this point “Simpson’s Road” strikes off to the S.E., and as Mr.

Howard Egan’s rule here terminates, it is considered the latter end of

Mormondom. Like all the stations to the westward, that is to say, those

now before us, it was burned down in the late Indian troubles, and has

only been partially rebuilt. One of the _employés_ was Mr. Mose Wright,

of Illinois, who again kindly assisted me with correcting my vocabulary.

[THE WHITE-KNIVES.]

About the station loitered several Indians of the White-Knife tribe,

which boasts, like the old Sioux and the modern Flatheads, never to

have stained its weapons with the blood of a white man. They may be

a respectable race, but they are an ugly: they resemble the Diggers,

and the children are not a little like juvenile baboons. The dress

was the usual medley of rags and rabbit furs: they were streaked with

vermilion; and their hair--contrary to, and more sensibly than the

practice of our grandfathers--was fastened into a frontal pigtail, to

prevent it falling into the eyes. These men attend upon the station

and herd the stock for an occasional meal, their sole payment. They

will trade their skins and peltries for arms and gunpowder, but,

African-like, they are apt to look upon provisions, beads, and tobacco

in the light of presents.

A long march of thirty-five miles lay before us. Kennedy resolved to

pass the night at Sheawit Creek, and, despite their grumbling, sent on

the boys, the stock, and the wagons, when rested from their labor, in

the early afternoon. We spent a cosy, pleasant evening--such as I have

enjoyed in the old Italian days before railroads--of travelers’ tittle

and Munchausen tattle, in the ingle corner and round the huge hearth

of the half-finished station, with its holey walls. At intervals, the

roarings of the wind, the ticking of the death-watch (a well-known

xylophagus), boring a home in the soft cotton-wood rafters, and the

howlings of the Indians, who were keening at a neighboring grave,

formed a rude and appropriate chorus. Mose Wright recounted his early

adventures in Oregon; how, when he was a greenhorn, the Indians had

danced the war-dance under his nose, had then set upon his companions,

and, after slaying them, had displayed their scalps. He favored us

with a representation of the ceremony, an ursine performance--the bear

seems every where to have been the sire of Terpsichore--while the right

hand repeatedly clapped to his lips quavered the long loud howl into

broken sounds: “Howh! howh! howh! ow! ow! ough! ough! aloo! aloo! loo!

loo! oo!” We talked of a curious animal, a breed between the dog and

the bear, which represents the semi-fabulous jumard in these regions:

it is said to be a cross far more savage than that between the dog

and the wolf. The young grizzly is a favorite pet in the Western hut,

and a canine graft is hardly more monstrous than the progeny of the

horse and the deer lately exhibited in London. I still believe that in

Africa, and indeed in India, there are accidentally mules bimanous and

quadrumanous, and would suggest that such specimens should be sought

as the means of settling on a rational basis the genus and species of

“homo sapiens.”

Mose Wright described the Indian arrow-poison. The rattlesnake--the

copperhead and the moccasin he ignored--is caught with a forked stick

planted over its neck, and is allowed to fix its fangs in an antelope’s

liver. The meat, which turns green, is carried upon a skewer when

wanted for use: the flint-head of an arrow, made purposely to break in

the wound, is thrust into the poison, and when withdrawn is covered

with a thin coat of glue. Ammonia is considered a cure for it, and the

Indians treat snake-bites with the actual cautery. The rattlesnake

here attains a length of eight to nine feet, and is described as

having reached the number of seventy-three rattles, which, supposing

(as the theory is) that after the third year it puts forth one per

annum, would raise its age to that of man: it is much feared in Utah

Territory. We were also cautioned against the poison oak, which is

worse than the poison vine east of the Mississippi. It is a dwarf bush

with quercine leaves, dark colored and prickly like those of the holly:

the effect of a sting, of a touch, or, it is said, in sensitives of its

proximity, is a painful itching, followed by a rash that lasts three

weeks, and other highly inconvenient consequences. Strong brine was

recommended to us by our prairie doctor.

Among the _employés_ of the station was an intelligent young mechanic

from Pennsylvania, who, threatened with consumption, had sought and

soon found health in the pure regions of the Rocky Mountains. He looked

forward to revisiting civilization, where comforts were attainable. In

these wilds little luxuries like tea and coffee are often unprocurable;

a dudeen or a cutty pipe sells for a dollar, consequently a hollowed

potato or corn-cob with a reed tube is often rendered necessary; and

tobacco must be mixed with a myrtaceous leaf called by the natives

“timaya,” and by the mountaineers “larb”--possibly a corruption of

“l’herbe” or “la yerba.” Newspapers and magazines arrive sometimes

twice a year, when they have weathered the dangers of the way. Economy

has deprived the stations of their gardens, and the shrinking of

emigration, which now dribbles eastward, instead of flowing in full

stream westward, leaves the exiles to amuse themselves.

_To Dry Creek. 11th October._

[ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER.--“DRY CREEK.”]

We arose early, and found that it had not “frosted;” that flies

were busy in the station-house; and that the snow, though thick on

the northern faces, had melted from the southern shoulders of the

hills--these were so many indices of the St. Martin’s, or Indian

summer, the last warm glow of life before the cold and pallid death

of the year. At 6 A.M. we entered the ambulance, and followed a good

road across the remains of the long, broad Sheawit Valley. After twelve

miles we came upon a water surrounded by willows, with dwarf artemisia

beyond--it grows better on the benches, where the subsoil is damper,

than in the bottoms--and there we found our lazy boys, who, as Jim

Gilston said, had been last night “on a drunk.” Resuming our way, after

three miles we reached some wells whose alkaline waters chap the skin.

Twenty miles farther led to the west end of the Sheawit Valley, where

we found the station on a grassy bench at the foot of low rolling

hills. It was a mere shell, with a substantial stone corral behind, and

the inmates were speculating upon the possibility of roofing themselves

in before the winter. Water is found in tolerable quantities below the

station, but the place deserved its name, “Dry Creek.”

A fraternal recognition took place between Long Jim and his brother,

who discovered each other by the merest accident. Gilston, the

_employé_, was an intelligent man: at San Francisco he had learned a

little Chinese, and at Deep Creek he was studying the Indian dialects.

He had missed making a fortune at Carson Valley, where, in June or

July, 1859, the rich and now celebrated silver mines were discovered;

and he warned us against the danger of tarrying in Carson City, where

revolvers are fired even into houses known to contain “ladies.” Colonel

Totten, the station-master, explained the formation of the gold

diggings as beds of gravel, from one to 120 feet, overlying slate rock.

Dry-Creek Station is on the eastern frontier of the western agency; as

at Roberts’ Creek, supplies and literature from Great Salt City east

and Carson City west are usually exhausted before they reach these

final points. After a frugal feed, we inspected a grave for two, which

bore the names of Loscier and Applegate, and the date 21st of May.

These men, _employés_ of the station, were attacked by Indians--Panaks

or Shoshonees, or possibly both: the former was killed by the first

fire; the latter, when shot in the groin, and unable to proceed,

borrowed, under pretext of defense, a revolver, bade good-by to his

companions, and put a bullet through his own head: the remainder then

escaped. Both these poor fellows remain unavenged. The Anglo-American,

who is admirably protected by the officials of his government in

Europe, Asia, and Africa, is systematically neglected--_teste_

Mexico--in America. The double grave, piled up with stones, showed gaps

where the wolves had attempted to tunnel, and blue-bottle flies were

buzzing over it in expectation. Colonel Totten, at our insistence,

promised that it should be looked to.

The night was comfortably passed at Dry Creek, under the leeward side

of a large haystack. The weather was cold, but clear and bright. We

slept the sleep of the just.

_To Simpson’s Park. 12th October._

[SIMPSON’S PARK.]

At the time of the cold clear dawn, whose gray contrasted strongly

with the blush of the most lovely evening that preceded it, the

mercury stood at 45° F. Shortly after 8 A.M. we were afield, hastening

to finish the long divide that separates Roberts’ Creek Valley from

its western neighbor, which, as yet unchristened, is known to the

b’hoys as Smoky Valley. The road wound in the shape of the letter U

round the impassable part of the ridge. Crossing the north end of

Smoky Valley, we came upon rolling ground, with water-willows and

cedars “blazed”--barked with a gash--for sign-posts. Ensued a long

kanyon, with a flat sole, not unlike Egan’s, a gate by which the swift

shallow stream had broken through the mountains: in places it was

apparently a _cul de sac_; in others, shoulder after shoulder rose in

long perspective, with points and projections behind, which an enemy

might easily turn. The granite walls were of Cyclopean form, with

regular lines of cleavage, as in the Rattlesnake Hills, which gave

a false air of stratification. The road was a mere path along and

across the rivulet bed, and the lower slopes were garnished with the

pepper-grass and the everlasting bunch-grass, so truly characteristic

of the “Basin State.” Above us, in the pellucid sky, towered the eagle

in his pride of place; the rabbit ran before us from the thicket; the

ground-squirrel cached himself in the sage-bush; and where distance

appeared, smokes upcurling in slow, heavy masses told us that man was

not far distant. A second divide, more abrupt than the former, placed

us in sight of Simpson’s Park--and such a park! a circlet of tawny

stubble, embosomed in sage-grown hills, the “Hiré” or “Look-out,” and

others, without other tree but the deformed cedars. The bottom is

notorious for cold; it freezes even in June and July; and our night

was, as may be imagined, none of the pleasantest.

The station-house in Simpson’s Park was being rebuilt. As we issued

from Mormondom into Christendom, the civility of our hosts perceptibly

diminished; the judge, like the generality of Anglo-Americans, did

unnecessary kow-tow to those whom republicanism made his equals, and

the “gentlemen,” when asked to do any thing, became exceedingly surly.

Among them was one Giovanni Brutisch, a Venetian, who, flying from

conscription, had found a home in Halifax: an unfortunate fire, which

burned down his house, drove him to the Far West. He talked copiously

of the Old Country, breathed the usual aspirations of _Italia una_,

and thought that Garibaldi would do well “_se non lo molestano_”--a

euphuism accompanied by a look more expressive than any nod. The

station was well provided with good miniés, and the men apparently

expected to use them; it was, however, commanded by the neighboring

heights, and the haystacks were exposed to fire at a time of the year

when no more forage could be collected. The Venetian made for us some

good light bread of wheaten flour, started or leavened with hop-water,

and corn-bread “shortened” with butter, and enriched with two or three

eggs. A hideous Pa Yuta and surly Shoshonee, whom I sketched, loitered

about the station: they were dressed in the usual rabbit-skin cape, and

carried little horn bows, with which they missed small marks at fifteen

paces. The boys, who were now aweary of watching, hired one of these

men for a shirt--tobacco was not to be had, and a blanket was too high

pay--to mount guard through the night. Like the Paggi or Ramoosee of

Western India, one thief is paid to keep off many: the Indian is the

best of wardens, it being with him a principle not to attack what the

presence of a fellow-tribesman defends.

_To Reese’s River. 13th October._

Simpson’s Park lies 195 miles from Carson City, where we might consider

the journey at an end; yet the cold of night did not allow us to set

out before 10 A.M. Our route lay across the park, which was dotted

with wheat-grass and broom-like reeds rising from a ground saupoudré

like salt. Presently we began to ascend Simpson’s Pass, a long kanyon

whose sloping sides and benches were dotted with the green bunch-grass.

At the divide we found the “Sage Springs,” whose position is too

elevated for the infiltration of salt: they are consequently sweet

and wholesome. Descending by a rugged road, we sighted every where on

the heights the fires of the natives. They were not symbols of war,

but signals--for which smokes are eminently adapted--made by tribes

telegraphing to one another their being _en route_ for their winter

quarters. Below us, “Reese’s River” Valley might have served for a

sketch in the African desert: a plain of saleratus, here yellow with

sand or hay, there black with fire, there brown where the skin of earth

showed through her garb of rags, and beyond it were chocolate-colored

hills, from whose heads curled blue smokes of volcanic appearance.

Bisecting the barren plain ran a bright little stream, whose banks,

however, had been stripped of their “salt grass:” pure and clear it

flows over a bed of gravel, sheds in a northerly direction, and sinks

at a distance of about twenty miles. From afar we all mistook the

course, deceived, as travelers often are, by the horizontality of the

lines. Leaving on the right the road which forks to the lower ford, we

followed that on the left hand leading to the station. There can not be

much traveling upon these lines: the tracks last for years, unaffected

by snow: the carcasses of animals, however, no longer mummified as in

the Eastern prairies, are readily reduced to skeletons.

The station-house in the Reese-River Valley had lately been evacuated

by its proprietors and burnt down by the Indians: a new building of

adobe was already assuming a comfortable shape. The food around it

being poor and thin, our cattle were driven to the mountains. At night,

probably by contrast with the torrid sun, the frost appeared colder

than ever: we provided against it, however, by burrowing into the

haystack, and, despite the jackal-like cry of the coyote and the near

tramping of the old white mare, we slept like tops.

_To Smith’s Creek. 14th October._

Before 8 A.M. we were under way, bound for Smith’s Creek. Our path

stretched over the remainder of Reese’s River Valley, an expanse of

white sage and large rabbit-bush which affords fuel even when green.

After a long and peculiarly rough divide, we sighted the place of our

destination. It lay beyond a broad plain or valley, like a huge white

“splotch” in the centre, set in dirty brown vegetation, backed by bare

and rugged hills, which are snow-topped only on the north; presently

we reached the “splotch,” which changed its aspect from that of a

muddy pool to a yellow floor of earth so hard that the wheels scarcely

made a dent, except where a later inundation had caused the mud to

cake, flake, and curl--smooth as ice without being slippery. Beyond

that point, guided by streams meandering through willow-thickets, we

entered a kanyon--all are now wearying of the name--and presently

sighted the station deep in a hollow. It had a good stone corral and

the usual haystack, which fires on the hill-tops seemed to menace.

Among the station-folks we found two New Yorkers, a Belfast man, and

a tawny Mexican named Anton, who had passed his life riding the San

Bernardino road. The house was unusually neat, and displayed even signs

of decoration in the adornment of the bunks with osier-work taken from

the neighboring creek. We are now in the lands of the Pa Yuta, and

rarely fail to meet a party on the road: they at once propose “shwop,”

and readily exchange pine nuts for “white grub,” _i. e._, biscuits. I

observed, however, that none of the natives were allowed to enter the

station-house, whereas in other places, especially among the Mormons,

the savages squeezed themselves into the room, took the best seats near

the fire, and never showed a symptom of moving.

_To Cold Springs. 15th October._

[“OLE HELLION.”--COLD-SPRINGS STATION.]

After a warmer night than usual--thanks to fire and lodging--we awoke,

and found a genial south wind blowing. Our road lay through the kanyon,

whose floor was flush with the plain; the bed of the mountain stream

was the initiative of vile traveling, which, without our suspecting it,

was to last till the end of the journey. The strain upon the vehicle

came near to smashing it, and the prudent Kennedy, with the view of

sparing his best animals, gave us his worst--two aged brutes, one of

which, in consequence of her squealing habits, had won for herself the

title of “ole Hellion.” The divortia aquarum was a fine water-shed

to the westward, and the road was in V shape, whereas before it had

oscillated between U and WW. As we progressed, however, the valleys

became more and more desert, the sage more stunted, and the hills more

brown and barren. After a midday halt, rendered compulsory by the

old white mare, we resumed our way along the valley southward, over

a mixture of pitch-hole and boulder, which forbids me to forget that

day’s journey. At last, after much sticking and kicking on the part

of the cattle, and the mental refreshment of abundant bad language,

self-adhibited by the men, we made Cold-Springs Station, which, by

means of a cut across the hills, could be brought within eight miles of

Smith’s Creek.

The station was a wretched place, half built and wholly unroofed; the

four boys, an exceedingly rough set, ate standing, and neither paper

nor pencil was known among them. Our animals, however, found good water

in a rivulet from the neighboring hills, and the promise of a plentiful

feed on the morrow, while the humans, observing that a “beef” had been

freshly killed, supped upon an excellent steak. The warm wind was a

pleasant contrast to the usual frost, but, as it came from the south,

all the weather-wise predicted that rain would result. We slept,

however, without such accident, under the haystack, and heard the loud

howling of the wolves, which are said to be larger on these hills than

elsewhere.

_To Sand Springs. 16th October._

In the morning the wind had shifted from the south to a more pluvial

quarter, the southeast--in these regions the westerly wind promises

the fairest--and stormy cirri mottled the sky. We had a long stage of

thirty-five miles before us, and required an early start, yet the lazy

b’hoys and the weary cattle saw 10 A.M. before we were _en route_.

Simpson’s road lay to our south; we could, however, sight, about two

miles distant from the station, the easternmost formation, which he

calls Gibraltar Gate. For the first three miles our way was exceedingly

rough; it gradually improved into a plain cut with nullahs, and

overgrown with a chapparal, which concealed a few “burrowing hares.”

The animals are rare; during the snow they are said to tread in one

another’s trails after Indian fashion, yet the huntsman easily follows

them. After eight miles we passed a spring, and two miles beyond it

came to the Middle Gate, where we halted from noon till 5 15 P.M. Water

was found in the bed of a river which fills like a mill-dam after

rain, and a plentiful supply of bunch-grass, whose dark seeds it was

difficult to husk out of the oat-like capsules. We spent our halt in

practicing what Sorrentines call _la caccia degl’ uccelluzzi_, and

in vain attempts to walk round the uncommonly wary hawks, crows, and

wolves.

Hitching to as the sun neared the western horizon, we passed through

the Gate, narrowly escaping a “spill” down a dwarf precipice. A plain

bounded on our left by cretaceous bluffs, white as snow, led to the

West Gate, two symmetrical projections like those farther eastward.

After that began a long divide broken by frequent chuck-holes, which,

however, had no cunette at the bottom. An ascent of five miles led

to a second broad basin, whose white and sounding ground, now stony,

then sandy, scattered over with carcass and skeleton, was bounded in

front by low dark ranges of hill. Then crossing a long rocky divide, so

winding that the mules’ heads pointed within a few miles to N., S., E.,

and W., we descended by narrow passes into a plain. The eye could not

distinguish it from a lake, so misty and vague were its outlines: other

senses corrected vision, when we sank up to the hub in the loose sand.

As we progressed painfully, broken clay and dwarf vegetation assumed in

the dim shades fantastic and mysterious forms. I thought myself once

more among the ruins of that Arab village concerning which Lebid sang,

“Ay me! ay me! all lone and drear the dwelling-place, the home--

On Mina, o’er Rijam and Ghool, wild beasts unheeded roam.”

[Illustration: FIRST VIEW OF CARSON LAKE.]

Tired out and cramped with cold, we were torpid with what the Bedouin

calls El Rakl--la Ragle du Désert, when part of the brain sleeps while

the rest is wide awake. At last, about 2 30 A.M., thoroughly “knocked

up”--a phrase which I should advise the Englishman to eschew in the

society of the fair Columbian--we sighted a roofless shed, found a

haystack, and, reckless of supper or of stamping horses, fell asleep

upon the sand.

_To Carson Lake. 17th October._

[SAND-SPRINGS STATION.]

Sand-Springs Station deserved its name. Like the Brazas de San Diego

and other _mauvaises terres_ near the Rio Grande, the land is cumbered

here and there with drifted ridges of the finest sand, sometimes 200

feet high, and shifting before every gale. Behind the house stood a

mound shaped like the contents of an hour-glass, drifted up by the

stormy S.E. gale in esplanade shape, and falling steep to northward or

against the wind. The water near this vile hole was thick and stale

with sulphury salts: it blistered even the hands. The station-house was

no unfit object in such a scene, roofless and chairless, filthy and

squalid, with a smoky fire in one corner, and a table in the centre of

an impure floor, the walls open to every wind, and the interior full of

dust. Hibernia herself never produced aught more characteristic. Of the

_employés_, all loitered and sauntered about _désœuvrés_ as cretins,

except one, who lay on the ground crippled and apparently dying by the

fall of a horse upon his breast-bone.

[CARSON LAKE.]

About 11 A.M. we set off to cross the ten miles of valley that

stretched between us and the summit of the western divide still

separating us from Carson Lake. The land was a smooth saleratus plain,

with curious masses of porous red and black basalt protruding from

a ghastly white. The water-shed was apparently to the north, the

benches were distinctly marked, and the bottom looked as if it were

inundated every year. It was smooth except where broken up by tracks,

but all off the road was dangerous ground: in one place the horses

sank to their hocks, and were not extricated without difficulty. After

a hot drive--the glass at 9 A.M. showed 74° F.--we began to toil up

the divide, a sand formation mixed with bits of granite, red seeds,

and dwarf shells, whose lips were for the most part broken off. Over

the fine loose surface was a floating haze of the smaller particles,

like the film that veils the Arabian desert. Arrived at the summit,

we sighted for the first time Carson Lake, or rather the sink of the

Carson River. It derives its name from the well-known mountaineer

whose adventurous roamings long anticipated scientific exploration.

Supplied by the stream from the eastern flank of the Sierra Nevada, it

is just such a lake as might be formed in any of the basins which we

had traversed--a shallow sheet of water, which, in the cloudy sky and

mitigated glare of the sun, looked pale and muddy. Apparently it was

divided by a long, narrow ruddy line, like ochre-colored sand; a near

approach showed that water on the right was separated from a saleratus

bed on the left by a thick bed of tule rush. Stones imitated the sweep

of the tide, and white particles the color of a wash.

Our conscientious informant at Sand-Springs Station had warned us that

upon the summit of the divide we should find a perpendicular drop, down

which the wagons could be lowered only by means of lariats affixed

to the axle-trees and lashed round strong “stubbing-posts.” We were

not, however, surprised to find a mild descent of about 30°. From the

summit of the divide five miles led us over a plain too barren for

sage, and a stretch of stone and saleratus to the watery margin, which

was troublesome with sloughs and mud. The cattle relished the water,

although tainted by the rush; we failed, however, to find any of the

fresh-water clams, whose shells were scattered along the shore.

Remounting at 5 15 P.M. we proceeded to finish the ten miles which

still separated us from the station, by a rough and stony road,

perilous to wheel conveyances, which rounded the southern extremity of

the lake. After passing a promontory whose bold projection had been

conspicuous from afar, and threading a steep kanyon leading toward

the lake, we fell into its selvage, which averaged about one mile in

breadth. The small crescent of the moon soon ceased to befriend us, and

we sat in the sadness of the shade, till presently a light glimmered

under Arcturus, the road bent toward it, and all felt “jolly.” But,

“Heu, heu! nos miseros, quam totus homuncio nil est!”

A long dull hour still lay before us, and we were approaching civilized

lands. “Sink Station” looked well from without; there was a frame house

inside an adobe inclosure, and a pile of wood and a stout haystack

promised fuel and fodder. The inmates, however, were asleep, and it

was ominously long before a door was opened. At last appeared a surly

cripple, who presently disappeared to arm himself with his revolver.

The judge asked civilly for a cup of water; he was told to fetch it

from the lake, which was not more than a mile off, though, as the

road was full of quagmires, it would be hard to travel at night. Wood

the churl would not part with: we offered to buy it, to borrow it,

to replace it in the morning; he told us to go for it ourselves, and

that after about two miles and a half we might chance to gather some.

Certainly our party was a law-abiding and a self-governing one; never

did I see men so tamely bullied; they threw back the fellow’s sticks,

and cold, hungry, and thirsty, simply began to sulk. An Indian standing

by asked $20 to herd the stock for a single night. At last, George

the Cordon Blue took courage; some went for water, others broke up a

wagon-plank, and supper after a fashion was concocted.

I preferred passing the night on a side of bacon in the wagon to

using the cripple’s haystack, and allowed sleep to steep my senses in

forgetfulness, after deeply regretting that the Mormons do not extend

somewhat farther westward.

_To Fort Churchill. 18th October._

[FORT CHURCHILL.]

The b’hoys and the stock were doomed to remain near the Carson Lake,

where forage was abundant, while we made our way to Carson Valley--an

arrangement not effected without excessive grumbling. At last the

deserted ones were satisfied with the promise that they should exchange

their desert quarters for civilization on Tuesday, and we were

permitted to start. Crossing a long plain bordering on the Sink, we

“snaked up” painfully a high divide which a little engineering skill

would have avoided. From the summit, bleak with west wind, we could

descry, at a distance of fifty miles, a snowy saddle-back--the Sierra

Nevada. When the deep sand had fatigued our cattle, we halted for an

hour to bait in a patch of land rich with bunch-grass. Descending from

the eminence, we saw a gladdening sight: the Carson River, winding

through its avenue of dark cotton-woods, and afar off the quarters and

barracks of Fort Churchill. The nearer view was a hard-tamped plain,

besprinkled with black and red porous stones and a sparse vegetation,

with the ruddy and yellow autumnal hues; a miserable range of low,

brown, sunburnt rocks and hills, whose ravines were choked with white

sand-drifts, bounded the basin. The farther distance used it as a foil;

the Sierra developed itself into four distinct magnificent tiers of

snow-capped and cloud-veiled mountain, whose dissolving views faded

into thin darkness as the sun disappeared behind their gigantic heads.

[FIGHTING LAWYERS.]

While we admired these beauties night came on; the paths intersected

one another, and, despite the glow and gleam of a camp-fire in the

distance, we lost our way among the tall cotton-woods. Dispersing in

search of information, the marshal accidentally stumbled upon his

predecessor in office, Mr. Smith, who hospitably insisted upon our

becoming his guests. He led us to a farm-house already half roofed

in against the cold, fetched the whisky for which our souls craved,

gave to each a peach that we might be good boys, and finally set

before us a prime beefsteak. Before sleeping we heard a number of

“shooting stories.” Where the corpse is, says the Persian, there will

be the kites. A mining discovery never fails to attract from afar a

flock of legal vultures--attorneys, lawyers, and judges. As the most

valuable claims are mostly parted with by the ignorant fortunate for a

song, it is usual to seek some flaw in the deed of sale, and a large

proportion of the property finds its way into the pockets of the acute

professional, who works on half profits. Consequently, in these parts

there is generally a large amount of unscrupulous talent. One gentleman

judge had knived a waiter and shot a senator; another, almost as “heavy

_on_ the shyoot,” had in a single season killed one man and wounded

another. My informants declared that in and about Carson a dead man

for breakfast was the rule; besides accidents perpetually occurring to

indifferent or to peace-making parties, they reckoned per annum fifty

murders. In a peculiar fit of liveliness, an intoxicated gentleman

will discharge his revolver in a ballroom, and when a “shyooting”

begins in the thin-walled frame houses, those not concerned avoid

bullets and splinters by jumping into their beds. During my three

days’ stay at Carson City I heard of three murders. A man “heavy _on_

the shoulder,” who can “hit out straight from the hip,” is a valuable

acquisition. The gambler or professional player, who in the Eastern

States is exceptionably peaceful, because he fears the publicity of a

quarrel, here must distinguish himself as a fighting-man. A curious

story was told to illustrate how the ends of justice might, at a pinch,

in the case of a popular character, be defeated. A man was convicted

of killing his adversary after saying to the by-standers, “Stoop down

while I shoot the son of a dog (female).” Counsel for the people showed

_malice prepense_; counsel for defense pleaded that his client was

_rectus in curia_, and manifestly couldn’t mean a man, but a dog. The

judge ratified the verdict of acquittal.

Such was the state of things, realizing the old days of the Californian

gold-diggings, when I visited in 1860 Carson City. Its misrule, or

rather want of rule, has probably long since passed away, leaving

no more traces than a dream. California has been transformed by her

Vigilance Committee, so ignorantly and unjustly declaimed against

in Europe and in the Eastern States of the Union, from a savage

autonomy to one of the most orderly of the American republics, and San

Francisco, her capital, from a den of thieves and prostitutes, gamblers

and miners, the offscourings of nations, to a social status not

inferior to any of the most favored cities.

_Hurrah again--in! 19th October._

This day will be the last of my diary. We have now emerged from the

deserts of the Basin State, and are debouching upon lands where coaches

and the electric telegraph ply.

After a cold night at the hospitable Smith’s, and losing the cattle,

we managed to hitch to, and crossed, not without difficulty, the deep

bed of the Carson River, which runs over sands glittering with mica.

A little beyond it we found the station-house, and congratulated

ourselves that we had escaped a twelve hours’ durance vile in its

atmosphere of rum, korn schnapps, stale tobacco, flies, and profane

oaths, not to mention the chance of being “wiped out” in a “difference”

between a soldier and a gambler, or a miner and a rider.

[FORT CHURCHILL.]

From the station-house we walked, accompanied by a Mr. O.--who,

after being an editor in Texas, had become a mail-rider in Utah

Territory--to the fort. It was, upon the principle of its eastern

neighbors, a well-disposed cantonment, containing quarters for the

officers and barracks for the men. Fort Churchill had been built

during the last few months: it lodged about two companies of infantry,

and required at least 2000 men. Captain F. F. Flint (6th Regiment)

was then commanding, and Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Swords, a deputy

quarter-master general, was on a tour of inspection. We went straight

to the quarter-master’s office, and there found Lieutenant Moore, who

introduced us to all present, and supplied us with the last newspapers

and news. The camp was Teetotalist, and avoided cards like good

Moslems: we were not, however, expected to drink water except in the

form of strong waters, and the desert had disinclined us to abstain

from whisky. Finally, Mr. Byrne, the sutler, put into our ambulance a

substantial lunch, with a bottle of cocktail, and another of cognac,

especially intended to keep the cold out.

The dull morning had threatened snow, and shortly after noon the west

wind brought up cold heavy showers, which continued with intervals to

the end of the stage. Our next station was Miller’s, distant 15 to 16

miles. The road ran along the valley of Carson River, whose trees were

a repose to our eyes, and we congratulated ourselves when we looked

down the stiff clay banks, 30 feet high, and wholly unfenced, that

our journey was by day. The desert was now “done.” At every few miles

was a drinking “calaboose:”[233] where sheds were not a kettle hung

under a tree, and women peeped out of the log huts. They were probably

not charming, but, next to a sea voyage, a desert march is the finest

cosmetic ever invented. We looked upon each as if

“Her face was like the Milky Way i’ the sky,

A meeting of gentle lights without a name.”

[233] The Spanish is calabozo, the French calabouse. In the

Hispano-American countries it is used as a “common jail” or a

“dog-hole,” and, as usual, is converted into a verb.

At Miller’s Station, which we reached at 2 30 P.M., there really was

one pretty girl--which, according to the author of the Art of Pluck,

induces proclivity to temulency. While the rain was heavy we sat

round the hot stove, eating bread and cheese, sausages and anchovies,

which Rabelais, not to speak of other honest drinkers, enumerates

among provocatives to thirst. When we started at 4 P.M. through the

cold rain, along the bad road up the river bed, to “liquor up” was

manifestly a duty we owed to ourselves. And, finally, when my impatient

companions betted a supper that we should reach Carson City before 9

P.M., and sealed it with a “smile,” I knew that the only way to win was

to ply Mr. Kennedy, the driver, with as many _pocula_ as possible.

Colder waxed the weather and heavier the rain as, diverging from the

river, we ascended the little bench upon which China-town lies. The

line of ranches and frame houses, a kind of length-without-breadth

place, once celebrated in the gold-digging days, looked dreary and grim

in the evening gloom. At 5 30 P.M. we were still fourteen miles distant

from our destination. The benches and the country round about had been

turned topsy-turvy in the search for precious metal, and the soil was

still burrowed with shaft and tunnel, and crossed at every possible

spot by flumes, at which the natives of the Flowery Land still found

it worth their while to work. Beyond China-town we quitted the river,

and in the cold darkness of night we slowly began to breast the steep

ascent of a long divide.

We had been preceded on the way by a young man, driving in a light

cart a pair of horses, which looked remarkable by the side of the

usual Californian teams, three pair with the near wheeler ridden.

Arriving at a bad place, he kindly called out to us, but before his

warning could be taken a soft and yielding sensation, succeeded by a

decided leaning to the right, and ending with a loud crash, announced

an overturn. In due time we were extricated, the pieces were picked

up, and, though the gun was broken, the bottle of cocktail fortunately

remained whole. The judge, probably and justly offended by my evil

habit of laughing out of season, informed us that he had never been

thrown before, an announcement which made us expect more “spills.” The

unhappy Kennedy had jumped off before the wheels pointed up hill; he

had not lost a hoof, it is true, on the long march, but he wept spirits

and water at the disappointing thought that the ambulance, this time

drawn by his best team, and laden with all the dignities, had come to

grief, and would not be fit to be seen. After 100 yards more another

similar series of sensations announced a repetition of the scene, which

deserved the epitaph,

“Hic jacet amphora vini.”

This time, however, falling down a bank, we “came to smash;” the

bottle (eheu!) was broken, so was the judge’s head, while the ear of

the judgeling--serve him right for chaffing!--was cut, the pistols and

powder-flasks were half buried in the sand, a variety of small objects

were lost, and the flying gear of the ambulance was a perfect wreck.

Unwilling to risk our necks by another trial, we walked over the rest

of the rough ground, and, conducted by the good Croly, found our way

to “Dutch Nick’s,” a ranch and tavern apparently much frequented by

the teamsters and other roughs, who seemed, honest fellows! deeply to

regret that the accident had not been much more serious.

Remounting after a time, we sped forward, and sighted in front a

dark line, but partially lit up about the flanks, with a brilliant

illumination in the centre, the Kursaal of Mr. Hopkins, the local

Crockford. Our entrance to Penrod House, the Fifth Avenue of Carson

City, was by no means of a triumphal order; Nature herself seemed

to sympathize with us, besplashing us with tears heavier than Mr.

Kennedy’s. But after a good supper and change of raiment, a cigar,

“something warm,” and the certainty of a bed, combined to diffuse over

our minds the calm satisfaction of having surmounted our difficulties

_tant bien que mal_.

[Illustration: VIRGINIA CITY. (From the Northeast.)]

CONCLUSION.

[CONCLUSION.]

The traveler and the lecturer have apparently laid down a law that,

whether the journey does or does not begin at home, it should always

end at that “hallowed spot.” Unwilling to break through what is now

becoming a time-honored custom, I trespass upon the reader’s patience

for a few pages more, and make my final _salaam_ in the muddy-puddly

streets, under the gusty, misty sky of the “Liverpool of the South.”

After a day’s rest at Carson City, employed in collecting certain

necessaries of tobacco and raiment, which, intrinsically vile, were

about treble the price of the best articles of their kind in the

Burlington Arcade, I fell in with Captain Dall, superintendent of the

Ophir mines, for whom I bore a recommendation from Judge Crosby, of

Utah Territory. The valuable silver leads of Virginia City occupied

me, under the guidance of that hospitable gentleman, two days, and on

the third we returned to Carson City, _viâ_ the Steam-boat Springs,

Washoe Valley, and other local lions. On the 24th appeared the boys

driving in the stock from Carson Lake: certain of these youths had

disappeared; Jim Gilston, who had found his brother at Dry-Creek

Station, had bolted, of course forgetting to pay his passage. A

stage-coach, most creditably horsed, places the traveler from Carson

City at San Francisco in two days; as Mr. Kennedy, however, wished to

see me safely to the end, and the judge, esteeming me a fit Mentor

for youth, had intrusted to me Telemachus, alias Thomas, his son, I

resolved to cross the Sierra by easy stages. After taking kindly leave

of and a last “liquor up” with my old _compagnons de voyage_, the judge

and the marshal, we broke ground once more on the 25th of October. At

Genoa, pronounced Ge-nóa, the county town, built in a valley thirteen

miles south of Carson, I met Judge Cradlebaugh, who set me right on

grounds where the Mormons had sown some prejudices. Five days of a very

dilatory travel placed us on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada;

the dugways and zigzags reminded me of the descriptions of travelers

over the Andes; the snow threatened to block up the roads, and our

days and nights were passed among teamsters _en route_ and in the

frame-house inn. On the 30th of November, reaching Diamond Springs, I

was advised by a Londoner, Mr. George Fryer, of the “Boomerang Saloon,”

to visit the gold diggings at Placerville, whither a coach was about to

start. At “Hangtown,” as the place was less euphoniously termed, Mr.

Collum, of the Cary House, kindly put me through the gold washing and

“hydraulicking,” and Dr. Smith, an old East Indian practitioner, and

Mr. White, who had collected some fine specimens of minerals, made

the evenings pleasant. I started on the 1st of November by coach to

Folsom, and there found the railroad, which in two hours conducts to

Sacramento: the negro coachmen driving hacks and wagons to the station,

the whistling of the steam, and the hurry of the train, struck me by

the contrast with the calm travel of the desert.

At Sacramento, the newer name for New Helvetia--a capital mass of

shops and stores, groggeries and hotels--I cashed a draught, settled

old scores with Kennedy, who almost carried me off by force to his

location, shook hands with Thomas, and transferred myself from the

Golden Eagle on board the steamer Queen City. Eight hours down the

Sacramento River, past Benicia--the birthplace of the Boy--in the dark

to the head-waters of the glorious bay, placed me at the “El Dorada of

the West,” where a tolerable opera, a superior supper, and the society

of friends made the arrival exceptionably comfortable.

I spent ten pleasant days at San Francisco. There remained some

traveler’s work to be done: the giant trees, the Yosemite or Yohamite

Falls--the highest cataracts yet known in the world--and the Almaden

cinnabar mines, with British Columbia, Vancouver’s Island, and Los

Angelos temptingly near. But, in sooth, I was aweary of the way; for

eight months I had lived on board steamers and railroad cars, coaches

and mules; my eyes were full of sight-seeing, my pockets empty, and

my brain stuffed with all manner of useful knowledge. It was far more

grateful to _flaner_ about the stirring streets, to admire the charming

faces, to enjoy the delicious climate, and to pay quiet visits like a

“ladies’ man,” than to front wind and rain, muddy roads, _arrieros_,

and rough teamsters, fit only for Rembrandt, and the solitude of

out-stations. The presidential election was also in progress, and I

wished to see with my eyes the working of a system which has been

facetiously called “universal suffering and vote by bullet.” Mr. Consul

Booker placed my name on the lists of the Union Club, which was a

superior institution to that of Leamington; Colonel Hooker, of Oregon,

and Mr. Tooney, showed me life in San Francisco; Mr. Gregory Yale,

whom I had met at Carson City, introduced me to a quiet picture of old

Spanish happiness, fast fading from California; Mr. Donald Davidson, an

old East Indian, talked East Indian with me; and Lieutenants Macpherson

and Brewer accompanied me over the forts and batteries which are

intended to make of San Francisco a New-World Cronstadt. Mr. Polonius

sensibly refused to cash for me a draught not authorized by my circular

letter from the Union Bank. Mr. Booker took a less prudential and

mercantile view of the question, and kindly helped me through with the

_necessaire_--£100. My return for all this kindness was, I regret to

say, a temperate but firm refusal to lecture upon the subject of Meccah

and El Medinah, Central Africa, Indian cotton, American politics, or

every thing in general. I nevertheless bade my adieux to San Francisco

and the hospitable San Franciscans with regret.

On the 15th of November, the Golden Age, Commodore Watkins, steamed out

of the Golden Gates, bearing on board, among some 520 souls, the body

that now addresses the public. She was a model steamer, with engines

and engine-rooms clean as a club kitchen, and a cuisine whose terrapin

soup and deviled crabs à la Baltimore will long maintain their position

in my memory--not so long, however, as the kindness and courtesy of

the ancient mariner who commanded the Golden Age. On the 28th we spent

the best part of a night at Acapulco, the city of Cortez and of Doña

Marina, where any lurking project of passing through ill-conditioned

Mexico was finally dispelled. The route from Acapulco to Vera Cruz,

over a once well-worn highway, was simply and absolutely impassable.

Each sovereign and independent state in that miserable caricature of

the Anglo-American federal Union was at daggers drawn with all and

every of its next-door neighbors; the battles were paper battles,

but the plundering and the barbarities--cosas de Mejico!--were stern

realities. A rich man could not travel because of the banditti; a poor

man would have been enlisted almost outside the city gates; a man

with many servants would have seen half of them converted to soldiers

under his eyes, and have lost the other half by desertion, while a

man without servants would have been himself press-gang’d; a Liberal

would have been murdered by the Church, and a Churchman--even the frock

is no protection--would have been martyred by the Liberal party. For

this disappointment I found a philosophical consolation in various

experiments touching the influence of Mezcal brandy, the Mexican

national drink, upon the human mind and body.

On the 15th of December we debarked at Panama; horridly wet, dull,

and dirty was the “place of fish,” and the “Aspinwall House” and

its Mivart reminded me of a Parsee hotel in the fort, Bombay. Yet I

managed to spend there three pleasant circlings of the sun. A visit

to the acting consul introduced me to M. Hurtado, the Intendente or

military governor, and to a charming countrywoman, whose fascinating

society made me regret that my stay there could not be protracted.

Though politics were running high, I became acquainted with most of the

officers of the United States squadron, and only saw the last of them

at Colon, alias Aspinwall. Messrs. Boyd and Power, of the “Weekly Star

and Herald,” introduced me to the officials of the Panama Railroad,

Messrs. Nelson, Center, and others, who, had I not expressed an

aversion to “dead-headism,” or gratis traveling, would have offered me

a free passage. Last, but not least, I must mention the venerable name

of Mrs. Seacole, of Jamaica and Balaklava.

On the 8th of December I passed over the celebrated Panama Railway to

Aspinwall, where Mr. Center, the superintendent of the line, made

the evening highly agreeable with conversation aided by “Italia,” a

certain muscatel cognac that has yet to reach Great Britain. We steamed

the next morning, under charge of Captain Leeds, over the Caribbean

Sea or Spanish Main, bound for St. Thomas. A hard-hearted E.N.E. wind

protracted the voyage of the Solent for six days, and we reached the

Danish settlement in time, and only just in time, to save a week’s

delay upon that offensive scrap of negro liberty-land. On the 9th of

December we bade adieu with pleasure to the little dungeon-rock, and

turned the head of the good ship Seine, Captain Rivett, toward the

Western Islands. She played a pretty wheel till almost within sight

of Land’s End, where Britannia received us with her characteristic

welcome, a gale and a pea-soup fog, which kept us cruising about for

three days in the unpleasant Solent and the Southampton Water.

[Illustration: IN THE SIERRA NEVADA.]

APPENDICES.

I. EMIGRANT’S ITINERARY,

Showing the distances between camping-places, the several

mail-stations where mules are changed, the hours of travel, the

character of the roads, and the facilities for obtaining water, wood,

and grass on the route along the southern bank of the Platte River,

from St. Joseph, Mo., _viâ_ Great Salt Lake City, to Carson Valley.

From a Diary kept between the 7th of August and the 19th of October,

1860.

+-----+-----------------------------------+------+------+------+-----+

| No. | | | | | |

| of | | | | Ar- | |

+-----+-----------------------------------+------+------+------+-----+

| 1. |Leave St. Joseph, Missouri, in N. | | | | |

| |change mules at Cold Spring--good | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |water and grass. |20-24 | 9 30 | 3 | 7 |

| 2. |After 10 miles, Valley Home, a | | | | |

| |Station, 44 miles from St. Joseph. | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |Sup and change mules. |22-23 | 4 | 8 | 7 |

| 3. |Two miles beyond Kennekuk is the | | | | |

| |shanties. Thence to Locknan’s, or | | P.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |Big Muddy Station. | 25 | 9 | 1 | 7, 8|

| 4. |Seventeen miles beyond Walnut | | | | |

| |which affords water, wood, and | | A.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |grass. | 18 | 3 | 6 | 8 |

| 5. |Cross Wildcat Creek and other | | | | |

| |wells 40-43 feet deep. Guittard’s | | A.M. | NOON.| Aug.|

| |Station. | 20 | 8 | 12 | 8 |

| 6. |Fourteen miles from Guittard’s, | | | | |

| |to Cotton-wood Creek, fields in | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |hollow near the stream. | 25 | 1 | 6 | 8 |

| 7. |Store at the crossing very dirty | | | | |

| |branch of the Big Blue: its | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |approximate altitude is 1485 feet. | 26 | 6 | 11 | 8 |

| 8. |After 19 miles of rough road and | | | | |

| |deep and heavy bed. Big Sandy | | P.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |Station. | 23 | 12 | 4 | 9 |

| 9. |Cross hills forming divide of | | | | |

| |supplies and good camping-ground. | | A.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |Along the left bank to Kiowa. | 19 | 6 | 10 | 9 |

| 10. |Rough road of spurs and gullies | | | | |

| |and grass abundant. Ranch at | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |Liberty Farm, on the Little Blue. | 25 | 11 | 3 | 9 |

| 11. |Cross divide between Little Blue | | | | |

| |stream flowing into the Little | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |Blue. | 24 | 4 | 9 | 9 |

| 12. |After 27 miles strike the Valley of| | | | |

| |a rough and bad road leads to | | P.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |“Seventeen-Mile Station”. | 34 |10 30 | 8 | 10 |

| 13. |Along the south bank of the Platte.| | | | |

| |Station on a stream where there is | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |a bad crossing in wet weather. | 21 | 9 30 | 1 15 | 10 |

| 14. |Beyond Plum Creek, Willow-Island | | | | |

| |“Cold-Water Ranch.” Halt and change| | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |at Midway Station. | 25 | 2 30 | 8 | 10 |

| 15. |Along the Valley of the Platte, | | | | |

| |Station, at this season the western| | P.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |limit of buffalo. | 27 | 9 | 1 45 | 11 |

| 16. |Up the Valley of the Platte. No | | | | |

| |House Ranch, and thence to station | | A.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |at Frémont Springs. | 30 | 6 15 | 11 | 11 |

| 17. |Road passes O’Fallon’s Bluffs. | | | | |

| |South Fork (Platte River). The | | NOON.| P.M. | Aug.|

| |station is called Alkali Lake. | 25 | 12 | 5 | 11 |

| 18. |Road along river; no timber; grass,| | | | |

| |Station at Diamond Springs near | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |Lower Crossing. | 25 | 6 |10 15 | 11 |

| 19. |Road along river. Last 4 miles very| | | | |

| |Lake City, and the road branches to| | P.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |Denver City and Pike’s Peak. | 25 | 11 | 3 15 | 12 |

| 20. |Ford Platte 600 yards wide, 2·50 | | | | |

| |Creek. Land arid; wild sage for | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |fuel. Lodge-Pole Station. | 35 | 6 30 |12 45 | 12 |

| 21. |Up Lodge-Pole Creek over a spur of | | | | |

| |station is Mud Springs, a poor | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |ranch. | 25 | 3 | 5 45 | 12 |

| 22. |Route lies over a rolling divide | | | | |

| |Chimney Rock is a ranch where the | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |cattle are changed. | 25 | 8 |12 30 | 13 |

| 23. | Road along the south bank of North| | | | |

| |road, cedars on heights. To | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |station. | 24 | 1 30 | 5 30 | 13 |

| 24. |Road along the river; crosses | | | | |

| |shallow stream with a sandy bottom.| | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |No wood below the hills. | 16 | 6 30 | 8 30 | 13 |

| 25. |Route over sandy, and heavy river | | | | |

| |Badeau, a Canadian, who sells | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |spirits, Indian goods, and outfit. | 26 | 6 |10 20 | 14 |

| 26. |After 9 miles of rough road cross | | | | |

| |Ward’s Station on the Central Star,| | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |small ranch and store. | 18 |12 15 | 4 | 14 |

| 27. |Rough and bad road. After 14 miles | | | | |

| |of road-agent, Mr. Slade, and one | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |of the worst places on the line. | 25 | 5 | 9 30 | 14 |

| 28. |Road forks; one line follows the | | | | |

| |unfinished ranch in valley; water | | A.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |and grass. | 25 |10 45 | 2 45 | 15 |

| 29. |Road runs 6 miles (wheels often | | | | |

| |good ranch and comfortable camping-| | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |ground. | 25 | 4 | 9 | 15 |

| 30. |Along the Platte River, now shrunk | | | | |

| |accommodation nor provisions at | | A.M. | NOON.| Aug.|

| |station. | 20 | 8 30 | 12 | 16 |

| 31. |After 8 miles cross vile bridge | | | | |

| |troops. To Upper Bridge, where the | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |ferry has now been done away with. | 18 | 1 15 | 4 15 | 16 |

| 32. |Road ascends a hill 7 miles long; | | | | |

| |and alkaline waters dangerous to | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |cattle abound. | 28 | 6 30 |12 50 | 17 |

| 33. |After 3 miles, Green Creek, not to | | | | |

| |family of Canadians; no | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |conveniences. | 33 | 2 30 | 9 15 | 17 |

| 34. |Along the winding banks of the | | | | |

| |No. 3; excellent water, wood, | | A.M. | A.M. | Aug.|

| |grass, game, and wild currants. | 25 | 7 | 11 | 18 |

| 35. |Up a kanyon of the Sweetwater. Ford| | | | |

| |good cold spring, grass, and sage | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |fuel. | 35 | 5 45 |12 45 | 19 |

| 36. |Up the bed of the creek, and, | | | | |

| |water, tolerable grass, sage fuel, | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |and musquetoes. | 35 | 7 45 | 3 | 20 |

| 37. |Cross Miry Creek. Road down Pacific| | | | |

| |road, no water for 49 miles. Big | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |Sandy Creek Station. | 33 | 8 |12 50 | 21 |

| 38. |Desolate road cuts off the bend of | | | | |

| |River, grocery, stores, and ferry- | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |boat when there is high water. | 32 | 1 45 | 6 30 | 21 |

| 39. |Diagonal ford over Green River; a | | | | |

| |grass and fuel. Wretched station at| | A.M. | NOON.| Aug.|

| |Ham’s Fork. | 24 | 8 | 12 | 22 |

| 40. |Ford Ham’s Fork. After 12 miles the| | | | |

| |at Millersville on Smith’s Fork; | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |large store and good accommodation.| 20 | 2 | 5 15 | 22 |

| 41. |Road runs up the valley of Black’s | | | | |

| |provisions, excellent milk; no | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |stores. | 25 | 8 30 |12 15 | 23 |

| 42. |Rough country. The road winds along| | | | |

| |accommodations at Bear River | | NOON.| P.M. | Aug.|

| |Station. | 20 | 12 | 5 30 | 23 |

| 43. |Road runs by Needle Rocks; falls | | | | |

| |River, which falls into Salt Lake | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |south of Bear River. | 36 | 8 15 | 2 30 | 24 |

| 44. |Road runs down the Valley of the | | | | |

| |station is called Carson’s House; | | P.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |accommodations of the worst. | 22 | 4 30 | 7 45 | 24 |

| 45. |Ford Bauchmin’s Creek 13 times in 8| | | | |

| |Salt Lake City. Road through “Big | | A.M. | P.M. | Aug.|

| |Field” 6 miles square. | 29 | 7 | 7 15 | 28 |

+-----+-----------------------------------+------+------+------+-----+

GREAT SALT LAKE CITY, N. lat. 40° 46′ 08″

W. long. 112° 06′ 08″ (G.)

Altitude 4300 feet.

The variation of compass at Temple Block in 1849 was 15° 47′ 23″,

and in 1860 it was 15° 54′, a slow progress toward the east. (In the

Wind-River Mountains, as laid down by Colonel Frémont in 1842, it was

E. 18°.) In Fillmore Valley it is now 18° 15′, and three years ago

was about 17° east; the rapid progression to the east is accompanied

with extreme irregularity, which the people attribute to the metallic

constituents of the soil.

Total of days between St. Jo and Great Salt Lake City. 19

Total stages. 45

Distance in statute miles. 1136

From Fort Leavenworth to Great Salt Lake City. 1168

ITINERARY OF THE MAIL-ROUTE FROM GREAT SALT LAKE CITY TO SAN FRANCISCO.

+-----+-----------------------------------+------+------+------+-----+

| No. | | | | | |

| of | | | | Ar- | |

+-----+-----------------------------------+------+------+------+-----+

| 1 |Road through the south of the city,| | | | |

| and |due south along the right bank of | | | | |

| 2. |the Jordan. Cross many creeks, | | | | |

| | | | | | |

| |Camp Floyd. | 44 | 10 30| 9 30 | 20 |

| 3. |Leaves Camp Floyd; 7 miles to the | | | | |

| |food and accommodation. | 20 | 10 30| 9 30 | 27 |

| 4. |Crosses remains of Rush Valley 7 | | | | |

| |water good. | 27 | 9 30 | 4 30 | 28 |

| 5. |New station; road forks to S.E., | | | | |

| |water. | 20 | 12 | 5 30 | 29 |

| 6. |Steep road 2¹⁄₂ miles to the summit| | | | |

| |drink for the first time after Lost| | P.M. | A.M. |Sept.|

| |Springs, distant 48 miles. | 28 | 6 30 | 3 30 | 29 |

| 7. |Road passes many pools. Half way | | | | |

| |desert; grass and hay plentiful. | 22 | 10 | 3 30 | 30 |

| 8. |Road ascending the bench, turns N. | | | | |

| |Deep-Creek mail station. Indian | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |farm. | 28 | 8 | 4 | 1 |

| 9. |Along Willow Creek. After 8 miles, | | | | |

| |Antelope Valley, from Camp Floyd | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |151 miles. | 30 | 8 | 4 | 3, 4|

| 10. |Road over the valley for 2 miles to| | | | |

| |there is a mail station; water, | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |grass, and fuel abundant. | 18 | 6 | 11 | 5 |

| 11. |Descends a rough road. Crosses | | | | |

| |Indians. Station at the W. mouth | | P.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |burned by Indians in October, 1860.| 18 | 2 | 6 | 5 |

| 12. |Pass the divide, fall into Butte | | | | |

| |grass on the N. side of the hill. | | P.M. | A.M. | Oct.|

| |Butte Station. | 18 | 8 | 3 | 6 |

| 13. |Ascend the long divide; 2 steep | | | | |

| |grass, and bottom; fuel distant. | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |Good mail station. | 22 | 8 | 1 45 | 7 |

| 14. |Long divide; fuel plenty; no grass | | | | |

| |Diamond Springs; warm water, but | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |good. | 23 | 8 | 1 45 | 8, 9|

| 15. |Cross Moonshine Valley. After 7 | | | | |

| |Sheawit, or Roberts’ Springs | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |Valley. | 28 | 8 | 1 45 | 10 |

| 16. |Down the valley to the west; good | | | | |

| |below in a dry creek; grass must be| | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |brought from 15 miles. | 35 | 6 30 |12 30 | 11 |

| 17. |Cross a long rough divide to Smoky | | | | |

| |according to Simpson’s Itinerary, | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |348 miles from Camp Floyd. | 25 | 8 15 | 2 25 | 12 |

| 18. |Cross Simpson’s Park. Ascend | | | | |

| |ford of Reese’s River. Water | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |perennial and good; food poor. | 15 | 10 | 2 | 13 |

| 19. |Through the remainder of Reese’s | | | | |

| |and hidden from view. The land | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |belongs to the Pa Yutas. | 28 | 7 20 | 2 45 | 14 |

| 20. |Ascend a rough kanyon, and descend | | | | |

| |half built, near stream; fuel | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |scarce. | 25 | 8 15 | 4 15 | 15 |

| 21. |At the west gate, 2 miles from the | | | | |

| |to “Sand Springs Valley;” bad | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |water; little grass. | 35 | 9 50 | 2 30 | 16 |

| 22. |Cross the valley, 10 miles to the | | | | |

| |no provisions; pasture good; fuel | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |scarce. | 25 | 11 | 9 | 17 |

| 23. |Cross a long plain. Ascend a very | | | | |

| |River. Fort Churchill newly built. | | A.M. | P.M. | Oct.|

| |Sutler’s stores, etc. | 25 | 9 30 | 7 15 | 18 |

| | | | | | Oct.|

| 24. | Carson City | 35 | 11 |10 30 | 19 |

| | | | | | |

+-----+-----------------------------------+------+------+------+-----+

ITINERARY of Captain J. H. SIMPSON’S Wagon-road from Camp Floyd

to Genoa, Carson Valley, Utah Territory. Explored by direction of

General A. G. JOHNSTON, commanding the Department of Utah, between

the 2d of May and the 12th of June, 1859.

The City of the Saints, and Across the Rocky Mountains to California · 第 18 / 21 章