any circumstances. One night's ride which I had in the Sierra I shall certainly never forget.
It was in the winter of 1868-69, when I had just been placed in charge of a division near the summit of the Sierra Nevada, on the then half-finished Central Pacific Railroad. After a long day's ride, I came back to the boarding-house at ten o'clock in the evening, and was told that a messenger had been there from Camp No. 10, with a request that I would lose no time in hurrying over there to attend upon John Smith, who was in a very critical condition. The messenger had been very urgent, and it was evidently a case of life and death—nothing less. I took a few minutes to consider. I was tired out, and wanted sleep badly, but could, on a pinch, go a little farther without breaking down entirely. The moon would be up at eleven o'clock, and the night was still and clear, though the snow had only just ceased falling, and was from five to eight feet deep on the level, if you can use the expression properly where there is nothing like a level to be found, and the roads—or trails, rather—are obliterated by the drifts. I inquired about the location of Camp No. 10. It was twelve miles away, and directly over a ridge, or spur, of the mountains. My own horse could not stand the trip, but a big lubber of a cart-horse, that they said was a good saddle-horse, was offered me. I got supper, put on dry socks and an extra pair of fur-lined overboots, and, just before midnight, was in the saddle and off.
A good saddle-horse! The brute belonged to the nightmare family, and his mother must have taken
