ould do all the herding, that I could study
plants and rocks and scenery as much as I liked, and that he would
himself accompany us to the first main camp and make occasional visits
to our higher ones to replenish our store of provisions and see how we
prospered. Therefore I concluded to go, though still fearing, when I saw
the silly sheep bouncing one by one through the narrow gate of the home
corral to be counted, that of the two thousand and fifty many would
never return.

I was fortunate in getting a fine St. Bernard dog for a companion. His
master, a hunter with whom I was slightly acquainted, came to me as soon
as he heard that I was going to spend the summer in the Sierra and
begged me to take his favorite dog, Carlo, with me, for he feared that
if he were compelled to stay all summer on the plains the fierce heat
might be the death of him. "I think I can trust you to be kind to him,"
he said, "and I am sure he will be good to you. He knows all about the
mountain animals, will guard the camp, assist in managing the sheep,
and in every way be found able and faithful." Carlo knew we were talking
about him, watched our faces, and listened so attentively that I fancied
he understood us. Calling him by name, I asked him if he was willing to
go with me. He looked me in the face with eyes expressing wonderful
intelligence, then turned to his master, and after permission was given
by a wave of the hand toward me and a farewell patting caress, he
quietly followed me as if he perfectly understood all that had been said
and had known me always.

* * * * *

_June 3, 1869._ This morning provisions, camp-kettles, blankets,
plant-press, etc., were packed on two horses, the flock headed for the
tawny foothills, and away we sauntered in a cloud of dust: Mr. Delaney,
bony and tall, with sharply hacked profile like Don Quixote, leading the
pack-horses, Billy, the proud shepherd, a Chinaman and a Digger Indian
to assist in driving for the first few days in the brushy foothills, and
myself with notebook tied to my belt.

The home ranch from which we set out is on the south side of the
Tuolumne River near French Bar, where the foothills of metamorphic
gold-bearing slates dip below the stratified deposits of the Central
Valley. We had not gone more than a mile before some of the old leaders
of the flock showed by the eager, inquiring way they ran and looked
ahead that they were thinking of the high pa