We camped in the evening on a large plain called Big Flat.
May 10th.—It was bitterly cold all night, and froze sharply. We got off soon after sun-up, and literally crept along the side of a high range of mountains, densely wooded, and forming one side of the valley of the Sacramento, which has dwindled down into a mere mountain-burn. Here I came suddenly on a little colony of miners, engaged in gold-washing. I discovered the place was named Dogtown—the entire town consisting of a store, a grogshop, and a smithy. I paid twenty-five cents (a shilling) for a mere sip of the vilest poison I ever tasted, libellously called ‘Fine Old Monongahela Whisky.’ About six miles farther, still on the same trail, I came to another gold-claim, where there were no houses at all, called Portuguese Flat. Passed through some thin timber; camped on a lovely mountain-stream.
May 11th.—Shotgun Creek; my camp is on the side of a steep mountain, and, about a mile farther on, is another stream, Mary’s Creek. Camped on this stream was a small pack-train, that had been with stores to some mining-station. I heard wolves barking and howling all night, and twice I drove them out of my camp with a fire-log. The next morning, as I passed the camp of the packers, they were in sad grief. The rascally wolves had pulled down one of their mules, and torn it almost to pieces. I rode up in the wood to see its mangled remains. The ravenous beasts must have fixed on its haunches, and ripped it up whilst it lived. I was sadly grieved for the poor beast that had come to so untimely an end, and for the man who had lost him—at least 30l. worth.
For two more days I followed up the course of the Sacramento, and crossed it for the last time. Standing at the ford, and looking straight up the valley, the scenery is wild and beautiful in the extreme; on either side sharp pinnacle-like rocks shoot up into all sorts of fantastic shapes, dotted with the sugar-pine, scrub-oak, and manzanita in front; and blocking up, as it were, the end of the valley, stood Mount Shasta, at this time covered to its base with snow.
This vast mountain is a constant landmark to the trappers, for it can be seen from an incredible distance, and stands completely isolated in the midst of the Shasta plains. I camped close to the very snow at its base, in a little dell called ‘Strawberry Valley.’ The next day reached the Shasta plains, and camped early in the day.
May 15th.—As I was to bid goodby to civilisation, and abandon all hopes of seeing aught but savages, after leaving this camp, and being by no means sure of the road, I made up my mind to ride into Yreka and obtain information about the Indians, and the state of the trails, and also (what was of equal importance) obtain a relay of provisions; the distance from my camp to the city was about thirty miles.
Yreka city is a small mining-station, situated on one side of the great Shasta plains; it stands quite away from law, society, and civilisation, gold being the magnet that attracts first the miner, and then the various satellites (jackals would be the more appropriate name) that follow his steps. I left the mules in charge of my packmaster, and started at sun-up. The ride was a most desolate affair, over an interminable sandy plain, without even a shrub or flower, much more a tree, to break the monotony. I reached Yreka about ten, and put up at the ‘What Cheer House,’ bespoke my bed, and ordered breakfast. The keen morning-air and a thirty-mile ride had made me perfectly ravenous, and I waged alarming havoc on the ham and eggs, fixings, and corn-dodgers, that, I must say, were admirable. The tea was not a success, being a remarkably mild infusion, very hot, and sweetened with brown sugar; but it washed down the solids, and the finest congou could not have done more.
Thus recuperated, I started off to call on Judge ——, to whom I had a letter of introduction from my agents in San Francisco. It did not take long to find the Judge’s quarters, the lanes, streets, and alleys being distinctions without any material differences. The mansion in which his judgeship ‘roomed’ was a small shanty, with a porch or verandah round it, to keep off the sun when it happened to be hot, and the wet when it rained. I knocked with my knuckles—no reply; tried again—still silence; resorted to the handle of my hunting-knife, anything but mildly—that did it.
‘I raither calkilate, stranger, you’d better jist open that door; I ain’t agwine to, you bet your boots.’
I opened it, and walked in. There sat Judge —— in a large armchair, cleverly balanced on the two hind-legs. No, it was not sitting, or lying, or standing, or lounging; it was a posture compounded of all these positions. His (I mean Judge ——’s) legs were extended on a level with his nose, and rested on the square deal table before him. He was smoking an immense cigar, one half of which was stowed away in his cheek, rolled about, and chewed; whilst the other half protruded from the corner of his mouth, and reached nearly to his eye. A little distance from the Judge was an immense spittoon, like a young sponging-bath. He was ‘whittling’ a piece of stick with a pocket-knife, and looked the embodiment of supreme indifference. The chair he occupied and the table—whose only use, as far as I could see, was to rest his legs on—constituted the entire furniture.