mountains. A little to its northeast, a thin white vapor, like the spray of a spouting whale, showed the direction of the Hot Springs: as time wore on it rolled away, condensed by the cooling air, like the smoke of a locomotive before the evening breeze. Then the prominent features of the city came into view, the buildings separated themselves from their neighbors by patches and shades of several green, the streets opened out their regular rows and formal lines; once more we rolled over Jordan's rickety bridge, and found ourselves again in the Holy City of the Far West.
The ultimate destination of the Judiciary whom I had accompanied was Carson Valley, in the Sierra Nevada, a distance of some hundreds of miles through a wild country where "lifting of hair" is by no means uncommon. The judge, though not a sucking diplomat, had greenly relied upon bona verba at Washington for transportation, escort, and other necessaries which would be easily procurable at Camp Floyd. It was soon found advisable to apply to the military authorities at the cantonment. The coach, as I have said, had ceased to run beyond Great Salt Lake City. In May, 1858, a contract had been made with Major George Chorpenning to transport mails and passengers—the fare being $120—from Utah to California, he receiving $180,000. This lasted till September, 1859, when the drivers, complaining that the road-agents charged with paying them for eighteen months had expended the "rocks" in the hells of San Francisco, notably evinced their race's power of self-government by seizing and selling off by auction wagons and similar movable property. On the 20th of March, 1860, it came into the hands of the proprietors of the Eastern line, Messrs. Russell and Co., who ran a mail-wagon first to California, then to Camp Floyd, and lastly, on the 1st of June, finding their expenditure excessive, packed the mails on mules.[1] Single travelers were sometimes thus pushed through, starting on the Wednesdays, once a fortnight; for a party like ours such a proceeding would have been impossible. Consequently, the judge and I set out for Camp Floyd to see what could be done by "Uncle Sam" and his "eagles."
Mr. Gilbert—of the firm of Gilbert, Gerrish, and Co., general (Gentile) merchants—offered us seats in his trotting wagon, drawn by a fine tall pair of iron-gray mules, that cost $500 the twain, and were christened Julia and Nally, after, I believe, the fair daughters of the officer who had lately commanded the district. With a fine clear day and a breeze which veiled us with dust-hangings—the highway must be a sea of mud in wet weather—we set out along the county road, leading from the southeastern angle of the Holy City. Our route lay over the strip of alluvium that separates the Wasach Mountains from the waters of Jordan: it is cut by a multitude of streamlets rising from the kanyons; the prin-
- ↑ They carry 50 to 60 lbs.; and the schedule time to Placerville is sixteen days.
