humiliation that we were 〃emigrants；〃 and consequently a low and inferior
sort of creatures。 Perhaps the reader has visited Utah； Nevada； or
California； even in these latter days； and while communing with himself
upon the sorrowful banishment of these countries from what he considers
〃the world；〃 has had his wings clipped by finding that he is the one to
be pitied； and that there are entire populations around him ready and
willing to do it for himyea； who are complacently doing it for him
already； wherever he steps his foot。
Poor thing； they are making fun of his hat； and the cut of his New York
coat； and his conscientiousness about his grammar； and his feeble
profanity； and his consumingly ludicrous ignorance of ores； shafts；
tunnels； and other things which he never saw before； and never felt
enough interest in to read about。 And all the time that he is thinking
what a sad fate it is to be exiled to that far country； that lonely land；
the citizens around him are looking down on him with a blighting
compassion because he is an 〃emigrant〃 instead of that proudest and
blessedest creature that exists on all the earth； a 〃FORTY…NINER。〃
The accustomed coach life began again； now； and by midnight it almost
seemed as if we never had been out of our snuggery among the mail sacks
at all。 We had made one alteration； however。 We had provided enough
bread； boiled ham and hard boiled eggs to last double the six hundred
miles of staging we had still to do。
And it was comfort in those succeeding days to sit up and contemplate the
majestic panorama of mountains and valleys spread out below us and eat
ham and hard boiled eggs while our spiritual natures revelled alternately
in rainbows； thunderstorms； and peerless sunsets。 Nothing helps scenery
like ham and eggs。 Ham and eggs； and after these a pipean old； rank；
delicious pipeham and eggs and scenery； a 〃down grade；〃 a flying coach；
a fragrant pipe and a contented heartthese make happiness。 It is what
all the ages have struggled for。
CHAPTER XVIII。
At eight in the morning we reached the remnant and ruin of what had been
the important military station of 〃Camp Floyd；〃 some forty…five or fifty
miles from Salt Lake City。 At four P。M。 we had doubled our distance and
were ninety or a hundred miles from Salt Lake。 And now we entered upon
one of that species of deserts whose concentrated hideousness shames the
diffused and diluted horrors of Saharaan 〃alkali〃 desert。 For sixty…
eight miles there was but one break in it。 I do not remember that this
was really a break； indeed it seems to me that it was nothing but a
watering depot in the midst of the stretch of sixty…eight miles。 If my
memory serves me； there was no well or spring at this place； but the
water was hauled there by mule and ox teams from the further side of the
desert。 There was a stage station there。 It was forty…five miles from
the beginning of the desert； and twenty…three from the end of it。
We plowed and dragged and groped along； the whole live…long night； and at
the end of this uncomfortable twelve hours we finished the forty…five…
mile part of the desert and got to the stage station where the imported
water was。 The sun was just rising。 It was easy enough to cross a
desert in the night while we were asleep； and it was pleasant to reflect；
in the morning； that we in actual person had encountered an absolute
desert and could always speak knowingly of deserts in presence of the
ignorant thenceforward。 And it was pleasant also to reflect that this
was not an obscure； back country desert； but a very celebrated one； the
metropolis itself； as you may say。 All this was very well and very
comfortable and satisfactorybut now we were to cross a desert in
daylight。 This was finenovelromanticdramatically adventurous
this； indeed； was worth living for； worth traveling for！ We would write
home all about it。
This enthusiasm； this stern thirst for adventure； wilted under the sultry
August sun and did not last above one hour。 One poor little hourand
then we were ashamed that we had 〃gushed〃 so。 The poetry was all in the
anticipationthere is none in the reality。 Imagine a vast； waveless
ocean stricken dead and turned to ashes； imagine this solemn waste tufted
with ash…dusted sage…bushes； imagine the lifeless silence and solitude
that belong to such a place； imagine a coach； creeping like a bug through
the midst of this shoreless level； and sending up tumbled volumes of dust
as if it were a bug that went by steam； imagine this aching monotony of
toiling and plowing kept up hour after hour； and the shore still as far
away as ever； apparently； imagine team； driver； coach and passengers so
deeply coated with ashes that they are all one colorless color； imagine
ash…drifts roosting above moustaches and eyebrows like snow accumulations
on boughs and bushes。 This is the reality of it。
The sun beats down with dead； blistering； relentless malignity； the
perspiration is welling from every pore in man and beast； but scarcely a
sign of it finds its way to the surfaceit is absorbed before it gets
there； there is not the faintest breath of air stirring； there is not a
merciful shred of cloud in all the brilliant firmament； there is not a
living creature visible in any direction whither one searches the blank
level that stretches its monotonous miles on every hand； there is not a
soundnot a sighnot a whispernot a buzz； or a whir of wings； or
distant pipe of birdnot even a sob from the lost souls that doubtless
people that dead air。 And so the occasional sneezing of the resting
mules； and the champing of the bits； grate harshly on the grim stillness；
not dissipating the spell but accenting it and making one feel more
lonesome and forsaken than before。
The mules； under violent swearing； coaxing and whip…cracking； would make
at stated intervals a 〃spurt；〃 and drag the coach a hundred or may be two
hundred yards； stirring up a billowy cloud of dust that rolled back；
enveloping the vehicle to the wheel…tops or higher； and making it seem
afloat in a fog。 Then a rest followed； with the usual sneezing and bit…
champing。 Then another 〃spurt〃 of a hundred yards and another rest at
the end of it。 All day long we kept this up； without water for the mules
and without ever changing the team。 At least we kept it up ten hours；
which； I take it； is a day； and a pretty honest one； in an alkali desert。
It was from four in the morning till two in the afternoon。 And it was so
hot！ and so close！ and our water canteens went dry in the middle of the
day and we got so thirsty！ It was so stupid and tiresome and dull！ and
the tedious hours did lag and drag and limp along with such a cruel
deliberation！ It was so trying to give one's watch a good long
undisturbed spell and then take it out and find that it had been fooling
away the time and not trying to get ahead any！ The alkali dust cut
through our lips； it persecuted our eyes； it ate through the delicate
membranes and made our noses bleed and kept them bleedingand truly and
seriously the romance all faded far away and disappeared； and left the
desert trip nothing but a harsh realitya thirsty； sweltering； longing；
hateful reality！
Two miles and a quarter an hour for ten hoursthat was what we
accomplished。 It was hard to bring the comprehension away down to such a
snail…pace as that； when we had been used to making eight and ten miles
an hour。 When we reached the station on the farther verge of the desert；
we were glad； for the first time； that the dictionary was along； because
we never could have found language to tell how glad we were； in any sort
of dictionary but an unabridged one with pictures in it。 But there could
not have been found in a whole library of dictionaries language
sufficient to tell how tired those mules were after their twenty…three
mile pull。 To try to give the reader an idea of how thirsty they were；
would be to 〃gild refined gold or paint the lily。〃
Somehow； now that it is there； the quotation does not seem to fitbut no
matter； let it stay； anyhow。 I think it is a graceful and attractive
thing； and therefore have tried time and time again to work it in where
it would fit； but could not succeed。 These efforts have kept my mind
distracted and ill at ease； and made my narrative seem broken and
disjointed； in places。 Under these circumstances it seems to me best to
leave it in； as above； since this will afford at least a temporary
respite from the wear and tear of trying to 〃lead up〃 to this really apt
and beautiful quotation。
CHAPTER XIX。
On the morning of the sixteenth day out from St。 Joseph we arrived at the
entrance of Rocky Canyon； two hundred and fifty miles from Salt Lake。
It was along in this wild country somewhere； and far from any habitation
of white men； except the stage stations； that we came across the
wretchedest type of mankind I have ever seen； up to this writing。 I
refer to the Goshoot Indians。 From what we could see and all we could
learn； they are very considerably inferior to even the despised Digger
Indians of California； inferior to all races of savages on our continent；
inferior to even the Terra del