SWEET WATER CAÑON.
Saturday, September 3.
We came through a deep, dark cañon this morning, and passed the grave of a man that was robbed and murdered last week. It is the deepest and darkest cañon we have traveled through. Ten men have been robbed and murdered in it in the last two years. We were in no danger of being molested. Only men who have their fortunes in gold about their person are intercepted, robbed and killed. How awful it seems. Why will men be so wicked?
In several places in the cañon the road has been widened with pick and shovel, perhaps two or three days’ work done, and we had to pay ten dollars toll for our two wagons passing over it. We stopped at noon on Black Tail Deer Creek. Are camping on the Sweet Water, about twenty-five miles from Virginia City. This is a beautiful place. There are fine large trees along the creek, high mountains around a lovely dale. It is just large enough for a fine farm. There is a deserted cabin here, where some one commenced improving a farm, became homesick and discouraged, and left it for some one else.
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Sunday, September 4.
We are camping within seven miles of Virginia City, near a freight train of about fifty wagons, with from seventy-five to one hundred people all together, men, women and children, returning to the States.
To hear these people talk of the disadvantages and disagreeable things with regard to life in Montana, would have a tendency to discourage one, if it were not so palpable that they are homesick, and everyone knows that when that disease is fairly developed, everything is colored with a deep dark blue, and even pleasant things seem extremely disagreeable to the afflicted person. The ladies seem to have the disease in its worst form, and of course they make the gentlemen do as they wish, which is to take them home to mother and other dear ones.
We have had a very pleasant day, about as pleasant as the day we started on this journey, the first day of May. It is cheering that the first and last days of our journeying should be so lovely. After four months and four days of living outdoors we are all in the most robust health. Yet we shall be glad to have a roof over our heads once more, even if it is a dirt roof.
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Monday, September 5.
Noon.—Here we are camping in the suburbs of the city, in Alder Gulch, where the miners are at work. How I wish my descriptive powers were adequate to making those who have never seen gulch-mining see as I see, and realize the impression made upon me as I first looked into the gulch at the miners at work. There is a temporary bridge (very shaky) across the gulch that wagons may pass over. Standing on this bridge, in the middle of the gulch, looking up and down, and even beneath my feet, the scene is a lively one. So many men, it seems they would be in each other’s way. They remind one of bees around a hive. And such active work. It seemed that not one of that great multitude stopped for one instant shoveling and wheeling dirt, passing and repassing each other without a hitch. It made me tired to look at them. The ground is literally turned inside out; great deep holes and high heaps of dirt. The mines are said to be very rich.
2 P. M.—We dined at noon to-day. Had beefsteak at fifty cents per pound and potatoes at twenty-five cents. I do not know if the price had anything to do with it, but it certainly tasted better than any I ever ate before.
I interviewed a woman—or rather she interviewed me—that lives near where we are camping. She said her name is Neihart. Her husband is a miner and earns seven dollars per day. Judging from the manner in which they seem to live, they ought to save at least five of it. I presume I did not make a very favorable impression, for after I came back to camp she called across the street to her neighbor—so we could hear what she said:
“Some more aristocrats. They didn’t come here to work. Going to teach school and play lady,” with great contempt in her voice.
I laughed at the first impression made, and tried to realize that teaching is not work.