We mount again, and are off across the high plains. The sage-brush is the only vegetation to be seen, interspersed here and there with large beds of alkali, on which not even sage-brush will grow. The sage country extends from Wadsworth to Battle Mount Station, a distance of about two hundred miles. Only occasionally, by the river-sides, near the station, small patches of cultivated land are to be seen; but, generally speaking, the country is barren, and will ever remain so. We are still nearly 5000 feet above the level of the sea. There is no longer any snow on the ground alongside us, but the mountains within sight are all covered. Though the day is bright and sunshiny, and the inside of the car warm, with the stove always full of blazing wood or coke, the air outside is cold, sharp, and nipping.
At Battle Mount—so called because of a severe engagement which occurred here some years since between the Indians and the white settlers—the plains begin to narrow, and the mountains to close in again upon the track. Here I saw for the first time a number of Shoshonie Indians—the original natives of the country—their faces painted red, and their coarse black hair hanging down over their shoulders. Their squaws, who carried their papooses in shawls slung over their backs, came alongside the train to beg money from the passengers. The Indian men seemed to be of a very low type—not for a moment to be compared with the splendid Maoris of New Zealand. The only fine tribe of Indians left, are said to be the Sioux; and these are fast dying out. In the struggle of races for life, savages nowhere seem to have the slightest chance when they come in contact with what are called "civilized" men. If they are not destroyed by our diseases or our drink, they are by our weapons.
We are now running along the banks of the sluggish Humboldt river, up to almost its source in the mountains near the head of the Great Salt Lake. We cross the winding river from time to time on trestle-bridges; and soon we are in amongst the mountains again, penetrating a gorge, where the track is overhung by lofty bluffs; and climbing up the heights, we shortly leave the river, foaming in its bed, far beneath us. Steeper and higher rise the sides of the gorge, until suddenly when we round a curve in the cañon, I see the Devil's Peak, a large jagged mass of dark-brown rock, which, rising perpendicularly, breaks up into many points, the highest towering majestically above us to a height of 1400 feet above the level of the track. This is what is called the "Ten Mile Cañon;" and the bold scenery continues until we emerge from the top of the gorge. At last we are in the open sunlight again, and shortly after we draw up at the Elko station.
We are now evidently drawing near a better peopled district than that we have lately passed through. Two heavy stage coaches are drawn up alongside the track, to take passengers to Hamilton and Treasure City in the White Pine silver-mining district, about 126 miles distant. A long team of mules stand laden with goods, destined for the diggers of the same district. Elko is "not much of a place," though I should not wonder if it is called a "City" here. It mostly consists of what in Victoria would be called shanties—huts built of wood and canvas—some of the larger of them being labelled "Saloon," "Eating-house," "Drug-store," "Paint-shop," and such like. If one might judge by the number of people thronging the drinking-houses, the place may be pronounced prosperous.
Our course now lies through valleys, which look more fertile, and are certainly much more pleasant to pass along than those dreary Nevada plains. The sun goes down on my second day in the train; as we are traversing a fine valley with rolling hills on either side. The ground again becomes thickly covered with snow, and I find we are again ascending a steepish grade, rising a thousand feet in a distance of about ninety miles, where we again reach a total altitude of 6180 feet above the sea.
At six next morning, I found we had reached Ogden in the territory of Utah. During the night we had passed "The Great American Desert," extending over an area of sixty square miles—an utterly blasted place—so that I missed nothing by passing over it wrapped in sleep and rugs. The country about Ogden is well-cultivated and pleasant looking. Ogden itself is a busy place, being the terminus of the Central Pacific Railroad, and the junction for trains running down to Salt Lake City. From this point the Union Pacific commences, and runs eastward as far as Omaha.