x canteens. We divided
the alcohol equally among us and mixed it with the coffee. This
arrangement was an experiment, but we found upon trial that one swallow
of this mixture would make a person bat his eyes and step about quite
lively, while two of them would make a man forget most of his troubles.

I remember that it was about mid-afternoon when we finally packed and
left the Humboldt River for the last time, which we did with but few
regrets. It was our intention to make as much as possible of the
Humboldt desert during the night.

A few miles out the trail forked, the one to the right being "Trucke
Route" and the other "Carson Route"; we decided upon the latter. Near
the forks were some campers, two sets of them, who were quarreling as to
which route was the better. They finally began to shoot at each other
and were still at it when we passed out of hearing, not knowing or
caring how the duel might end. Toward sundown we came to the salt wells,
twelve miles from the sink, the water in them being as salt as the
strongest brine. This was the last salt water we saw on our journey.
About midnight we came to some tents, wagons, and a corral of stock; we
were then nearly half the distance across the desert.

At the tent water was sold at the very low price of "six bits" a gallon.
We bought one gallon apiece for each of the animals and as much as we
needed to drink at the time for ourselves. We did not care to dilute the
contents of our canteens. We gave the stock a feed and moved on. The
night was moonlighted, very bright and pleasant, but awfully still,
rendered so seemingly by the surroundings, or perhaps by the lack of
surroundings, for there could be heard no rushing of waters, no
murmuring of forests no rustling of grasses. All of Nature's
music-pieces had been left far behind. There was nothing but sand, and
it was at rest except as our footfalls caused it to vibrate. The broad
and barren expanse, the white light of the full moon full upon it, the
curvings and windings of the trail upon the sand, the steady onward
march of our caravan, all combined to make a subject worthy the brush of
a Millet.

We travelled in silence mostly. There was reverence in the atmosphere
and we could not evade it. We did not even try.

Akin to this scene must have been the one which inspired Longfellow to
write:

"Art is the child of Nature; yes,
Her darling child, in whom we trace
The features of the mother's fac