I nodded. At that moment a man stumbled in, accompanied by a frigid gust of wind, and, walking to the stove, stamped the snow off his high boots, unwound a tippet from his neck, and slapped his ice-covered hat against his limbs.
"Whose jackasses be them outside?" he inquired.
"Mine," I replied.
"Where ye bound with them?"
"Over the pass to Placerville."
The man laughed, then, looking sober, inquired, "Where yer from, may I ask?"
"New York," I said, nonchalantly.
"Not with them little burros?"
"With one of them."
"Je-ru-salem! I don't know but ye may cross with 'em!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. "But I doubt it. Jest fetched down my four horses—left the wagon up to the hubs in snow half-way up the trail—snow must be three foot deep on the summit. You'll leave your carcasses in the snow, if ye try it, I'm tellin' ye."