shining skins, beautiful limbs, and
lithe forms, they were by no means the least picturesque feature of the
landscape.

Ten miles this side of Bidwell's Bar, the road, hitherto so smooth and
level, became stony and hilly. For more than a mile we drove along the
edge of a precipice, and so near, that it seemed to me, should the
horses deviate a hairbreadth from their usual track, we must be dashed
into eternity. Wonderful to relate, I did not "Oh!" nor "Ah!" nor
shriek _once_, but remained crouched in the back of the wagon, as
silent as death. When we were again in safety, the driver exclaimed, in
the classic patois of New England, "Wall, I guess yer the fust woman
that ever rode over that are hill without hollering." He evidently did
not know that it was the intensity of my _fear_ that kept me so still.

Soon Table Mountain became visible, extended like an immense
dining-board for the giants, its summit a perfectly straight line
penciled for more than a league against the glowing sky. And now we
found ourselves among the Red Hills, which look like an ascending sea
of crimson waves, each crest foaming higher and higher as we creep
among them, until we drop down suddenly into the pretty little valley
called Bidwell's Bar.

I arrived there at three o'clock in the evening, when I found F. in
much better health than when he left Marysville. As there was nothing
to sleep _in_ but a tent, and nothing to sleep _on_ but the ground, and
the air was black with the fleas hopping about in every direction, we
concluded to ride forward to the Berry Creek House, a ranch ten miles
farther on our way, where we proposed to pass the night.

LETTER _the_ FIRST

Part Two

[_The_ PIONEER, _February_, 1854]

_The_ JOURNEY _to_ RICH BAR

SYNOPSIS

A moonlit midsummer-night's ride on muleback. Joyous beginning. The
Indian trail lost. Camping out for the night-Attempts in the morning to
find the trail. A trying ride in the fierce heat of midday. The trail
found. A digression of thirty miles. Lack of food, and seven miles more
to ride. To rest is impossible. Mad joy when within sight of Berry
Creek Rancho. Congratulations on escape from Indians on trail.
Frenchman and wife murdered. The journey resumed. Arrival at the "Wild
Yankee's". Breakfast with fresh butter and cream. Indian bucks, squaws,
and papooses. Their curiosity. Pride of an Indian in ability to repeat
one line of a song. Indian women: extreme beauty of their limbs;