The combined powers of Aunty’s mixture and the Major’s whisky-flask rapidly restored me. The villainous mustangs—the cause of my mishap—were caught and saddled. Danger past is lightly thought of and we enjoyed a hearty laugh as the Major quaintly told the story at the Bluffs of the Cap’en’s bath at the Tuscan Springs.
CHAPTER X.
THE START FROM RED BLUFFS—MISHAPS BY THE WAY—DEVIL’S POCKET—ADVENTURE AT YREKA—FIELD-CRICKETS—THE CALIFORNIAN QUAIL—SINGULAR NESTING OF BULLOCK’S ORIOLE.
April 28th.—My pack-train is completed, my provisions arranged for packing on the mules. I have eighty-one mules and a bell-horse. To manage mules without a horse carrying a bell round its neck is perfectly impossible. The bell-horse is always ridden ahead, and wherever it goes the mules follow in single file. (But of this and packing I shall have more to say further on.)
April 29th.—Sunday.
April 30th.—I have determined to find my way through Oregon by an unknown route; doing this, I shall reach the Commission at least two months earlier than by taking the ordinary mail-route to Portland.
Again and again I am warned of the risk not only of losing my mules and men, but my own scalp into the bargain. The country swarms with hostile Indians, many large streams have to be crossed, the trail is bad, if any; and altogether the prospect is anything but cheering. I have, however, made up my mind to go.
The annoyances of a start got over—wild mules reduced to a state of discipline, packs adjusted, and men as sober as could reasonably be expected—all went pleasant as a marriage-bell until the second day, when my first misfortune happened.
May 1st.—I camp on a beautiful bit of ground, with grass in abundance, and a stream, clear as crystal and cold as ice, rippling past close to my fire. I place a guard over my mules, fearing accidents; and choosing as level a spot as I can see, roll myself in my blanket, and with my head in my saddle soon slept.