We breathed the air of that cell ten times over, and had begun on the eleventh course when the door opened. What a magnificent pair of spectacles was open to our eyes! The mountains on both sides of the canyon looked like great billows of a frozen sea, while the fir trees sticking out of the snow resembled the spars of sunken wrecks with their torn sails frozen to the yardarms.
Coonskin was up first. While dressing he happened to glance out of the window and his tell-tale exclamation caused Pod to leap out of bed.
"Well! In the name of Balaam, if there ain't Damfino!" he laughed.
"She's a nervy dame," observed the youth with satisfaction. "She knows the other donks are here, all right."
Curiosity led me to stick my head out of the door, and there, knee-deep in snow, stood the old girl, patiently waiting for an invite to our house party. Skates had to be taken up to pilot down the half-starved, half-frozen, timid refugee. Damfino slipped on the way but collected herself, and the "girls" whispered something to each other, which I could not catch, and laughed. I suppose it was a joke, so I got off an old one to Coxey, and he brayed with merriment. Then I told it to Pod, and he gave it to Coonskin, who snorted like a colt over a horse chestnut.
As soon as Damfino was unloaded the men got breakfast. The dishes washed and our galls redressed with tar and cotton wool, our shoulders were padded for the saddles, and we were packed for the journey. Two o'clock swung around before we got up that toboggan-slide. Once there, we stopped for wind, then began to plow snow toward Placerville.
It was a beautiful day, but the glare of the sun on the snow made us shed tears. Not a sound jarred the air, except the swish-swash of our pedals hewing away the snow, or an occasional asinine sneeze, or canine cough, the result of a night's exposure. At the steep and narrow turn where the stage driver nearly spilled Horace Greeley trying to take him through on pony-express time, I became interested, and the spot where Sawlog Johnson was crushed to death by a giant tree falling on his shadow riveted my attention for some time. I thought it a good place to rest; the trees were bent by the heavy snow and ice, and I knew lightning never struck twice in the same spot.
We reached Hart's shingle camp long after dark. Pod and I were cordially received and entertained. When about to resume travel next morning the drove of cattle which we were urged to wait for passed us. They had crossed the summit in quick time, of course, after we donks had broken the trail.
Now only small patches of snow dotted the roadside, and we had a muddy trail down to the Bridge house. The keeper gave Pod a round reception, and charged him an all-round sum. We left early next morning.
The scenery on that mountain trail was a thing to out-last a donkey's memory. One sheer cliff rising a thousand feet marks the site of a bold exploit. It is said that once upon a time Snowshoe Thompson, while out hunting above this cliff, was chased by a grizzly, and only escaped by leaping off the precipice and striking the frozen river on his snow-shoes, the momentum taking him down to Sacramento, seventy miles away. On that cliff was afterwards found a grizzly of 1,220 pounds dead weight with a hunting knife in his heart. It was the coroner's verdict that the bear was so astonished at the fearless hunter's brave act that he committed suicide with the knife the hunter dropped in his hurry.