University of Virginia Library

8. VIII.
TO REESE RIVER.

I leave Virginia for Great Salt Lake City, via the
Reese River Silver Diggings.

There are eight passengers of us inside the coach
—which, by the way, isn't a coach, but a Concord
covered mud wagon.

Among the passengers is a genial man of the name
of Ryder, who has achieved a wide-spread reputation
as a strangler of unpleasant bears in the mountain
fastnesses of California, and who is now an eminent
Reese River miner.

We ride night and day, passing through the land
of the Piute Indians. Reports reach us that fifteen
hundred of these savages are on the Rampage, under
the command of a red usurper named Buffalo-Jim,
who seems to be a sort of Jeff Davis, inasmuch as
he and his followers have seceded from the regular
Piute organization. The seceding savages have
announced that they shall kill and scalp all pale-faces

(which makes our faces pale, I reckon) found loose
in that section. We find the guard doubled at all
the stations where we change horses, and our passengers
nervously examine their pistols and readjust
the long glittering knives in their belts. I feel in my
pockets to see if the key which unlocks the carpetbag
containing my revolvers is all right—for I had
rather brilliantly locked my deadly weapons up in
that article, which was strapped with the other baggage
to the rack behind. The passengers frown on
me for this carelessness, but the kind-hearted Ryder
gives me a small double-barrelled gun, with which I
narrowly escape murdering my beloved friend Hingston
in cold blood. I am not used to guns and things,
and in changing the position of this weapon I pulled
the trigger rather harder than was necessary.

When this wicked rebellion first broke out I was
among the first to stay at home—chiefly because of
my utter ignorance of firearms. I should be valuable
to the Army as a Brigadier-General only so far as
the moral influence of my name went.

However, we pass safely through the land of the
Piutes, unmolested by Buffalo James. This celebrated
savage can read and write, and is quite an orator,
like Metamora, or the last of the Wampanoags. He
went on to Washington a few years ago and called
Mr. Buchanan his Great Father, and the members of
the Cabinet his dear Brothers. They gave him a
great many blankets, and he returned to his beautiful
hunting grounds and went to killing stage-drivers.
He made such a fine impression upon Mr. Buchanan
during his sojourn in Washington that that statesman
gave a young English tourist, who crossed the
plains a few years since, a letter of introduction
to him. The great Indian chief read the
English person's letter with considerable emotion,
and then ordered him scalped, and stole his
trunks.

Mr. Ryder knows me only as “Mr. Brown,” and
he refreshes me during the journey by quotations
from my books and lectures.

“Never seen Ward?” he said.

“Oh no.”

“Ward says he likes little girls, but he likes large

girls just as well. Haw, haw haw! I should like
to see the d—— fool!”

He referred to me.

He even woke me up in the middle of the night
to tell me one of Ward's jokes.

I lecture at Big Creek.

Big Creek is a straggling, wild little village; and
the house in which I had the honor of speaking a
piece had no other floor than the bare earth. The
roof was of sage-brush. At one end of the building
a huge wood fire blazed, which, with half-a-dozen
tallow-candles, afforded all the illumination desired.
The lecturer spoke from behind the drinking bar.
Behind him long rows of decanters glistened; above
him hung pictures of race-horses and prize-fighters;
and beside him, in his shirt-sleeves and wearing a
cheerful smile, stood the bar-keeper. My speeches
at the Bar before this had been of an elegant character,
perhaps, but quite brief. They never extended
beyond “I don't care if I do,” “No sugar in mine,”
and short gems of a like character.

I had a good audience at Big Creek, who seemed

to be pleased, the bar-keeper especially; for at the
close of any “point” that I sought to make, he would
deal the counter a vigorous blow with his fist and
exclaim, “Good boy from the New England States!
listen to William W. Shakspeare!”

Back to Austin. We lose our way, and hitching
our horses to a tree, go in search of some human
beings. The night is very dark. We soon stumble
upon a camp-fire, and an unpleasantly modulated
voice asks us to say our prayers, adding that we are
on the point of going to Glory with our boots on.
I think perhaps there may be some truth in this, as
the mouth of a horse-pistol almost grazes my forehead,
while immediately behind the butt of that
death-dealing weapon I perceive a large man with
black whiskers. Other large men begin to assemble,
also with horse-pistols. Dr. Hingston hastily explains,
while I go back to the carriage to say my prayers,
where there is more room. The men were miners
on a prospecting tour, and as we advanced upon them
without sending them word they took us for highway
obbers.

I must not forget to say that my brave and kind-hearted

friend Ryder of the mail coach, who had so
often alluded to “Ward” in our ride from Virginia
to Austin, was among my hearers at Big Creek. He
had discovered who I was, and informed me that he
had debated whether to wollop me or give me some
rich silver claims.