After a time we got started on the trail. Len not only declined pay for Pod's supplies, but gave me a hundred pounds of barley. This my comrades offered to carry provided I would divide with them.
For the three days following there was little else to see besides sand and sage and basaltic rocks. Ragtown still stands, a squatty cabin and dilapidated shed with corral adjoining, where old Ace Kenyon of questionable fame reaped a harvest from the half-starved emigrants of early days by extorting from them rewards for recovering their lost cattle, which he had had his retainers drive into the mountains in the night. Ace would place all the blame on the innocent shoulders of the Indians. He claimed that such depredations were often made by hostile tribes, and that only through the courage of his desperate cowboys could he possibly retrieve them. After the despondent emigrants had tarried several days and been forced to pay extravagant prices for provisions, and some of them induced to throw away their rags for a suit of new clothes, the cattle would be driven into camp. Then the elated travelers had to open their purses again. Ragtown, situated as it was at the extremity of the Humboldt Desert, was a sort of overland depot, and we were told that thousands of emigrants used to drift in that direction from other routes when water had given out and for miles the trail was then strewn with cast-off raiment, abandoned wagons, sometimes with oxen attached, and the skeletons of cattle and men who died from thirst. At times we could see the winding line of cotton-woods that marked the tortuous current of the Carson in the distance, and again the river would flow slowly close at hand. Pod spent most of the dull hours playing solitaire on Damfino's broad back, riding backwards.
We struck camp at the last ranch on the Carson the morning of October 18, and tried to reach Dayton the same night. Everything went well until we came to a point where three trails met. Pod had been cautioned to take the best-beaten one, so, the night being dark, Coonskin left us donks in Pod's charge and ventured to examine the trails. It was eleven o'clock. Not a thing had we had to eat or drink all day except a small measure of barley. To stand waiting for that slow boy to get his bearings was more than we donks could bear, and soon Damfino whispered to Cheese and me to slip away from the outfit and follow her lead.
The suggestion was at once acted upon. Each of us took a different course to start with, but we soon caught up with Damfino, who led us a good pace for two hours and ran us all into Six Mile Canyon about one a. m. There we lay down with saddle and packs on, and, to our surprise, discovered that faithful dog, Don, lying close by, on guard. It was not the most comfortable night I had ever passed, but it was better than standing. When Coonskin found us in the afternoon he caused me to change my ideas on that question, but on reaching Dayton, the Prof, was so glad to see me that he lavishly dined us all, watered us, and let us roll to our heart's content. So all scores were settled.
[CHAPTER LIV.]
Across Sierras in deep snow
BY PYE POD.
It means, monsieur, that a storm is raging at the summit—a snow storm—which will be upon us ere long. And, dame! it is dangerous!—Tartarin on the Alps.
We left Dayton at two o'clock. Carson City lay six miles away, close to the Sierra Nevadas, whose towering heights, on the Nevada side, rise abruptly from the plain. That afternoon's journey was the last we were to experience through the monotonous chaparral.
When we trailed into Carson, the sun had gone down behind the forest-covered mountains, leaving me a little less than thirteen days in which to reach San Francisco.