if ever equaled. A party of trappers had been surrounded by hundreds of Indians, and had cut their way through, fighting, and retreating, day and night, and nearly perished for want of food, water and sleep. Time after time they were surrounded, but continued to break through the encircling lines until at last they reached a place of safety. The last shot from the savages proved an unlucky one for Sublette. A solid ounce ball from an Indian rifle struck him in the ankle, and tore through the flesh and bone. It was a terrible wound, even had there been a surgeon to amputate and dress it. What then must it have been when no medical or surgical assistance could be had! But the leg must be amputated or the man would die. It was done. Taking a beaver knife, the edge was hacked into a saw while another was sharpened to its keenest edge, and with these rude implements Sublette amputated his own leg. The plates of beaver traps were heated redhot and applied to the raw and bleeding stump, charring the veins and arteries and stopping the flow of blood. Thus the trapper was saved. Going back to St. Louis as soon as his condition would permit, he submitted to another operation to make a smoother job and a better stump, and soon afterwards was back again on the plains and in the mountains, hunting, trapping, and fighting Indians the same as before.

Thus Carson river and valley have been made ever memorable by the numerous tragedies and heroic deeds enacted by the brave, adventurous mountaineers, hunters and trappers of those early days, whose achievements and deeds of daring read like the most sensational romance.

CHAPTER XIII.

TO THE MINES.

The following day, after my arrival at Carsan, I again packed my ever-faithful pony, now my only companion, and journeyed some 15 miles up the valley to a Mormon trading post, known as "Reese's station." It was located at the base of the mountain near where the trail leaves the valley to cross over to Hangtown (now Placerville), 100 miles, hence to Sacramento valley and city, 40 miles. Comparatively few wagons reached this point, the trail being used chiefly for pack trains.

The emigration had so divided up that the Lassen, Truckee and Georgetown routes had taken a large portion of the travel. They were all in about the condition that nature formed them, in many places very difficult of passage, being steep and rough. A few years later the one over which I traveled was made a very passable road for stage coaches and other vehicles.

mountain

I camped a mile from "Reese's" by a stream of crystal water, and found a little grass for my pony. After a feast of fried bacon and pancakes, I spread my blankets and lay down to rest and sleep. thinking of my mountain climb on the morrow. I made an early start the following morning, feeling much.

elated over being so near my journey's end the goal of my ambition-the mines of California. I was in good health and spirits, and after all, what is more to be desired-but not always appreciated-in the great rush for gold or fame? But the most important lessons are often learned later in life. I had no use for a canteen that day, as we traveled up a wooded stream of beautiful mountain water, crossing it many times. The little roaring cascades often met with in shady places made sweet music to the ear, after months of weary travel over burning alkali plains and sandy deserts.

At noon we emerged into an open space and left the course of the babbling brook. It was a lovely spot for our mid-day rest. The air was cool and delightfully invigorating, with glimpses through the scattered pines. of the valley we had left in the early morning. The ascent had been gradual, a distance of six or seven miles. After an hour's stop we pursued our upward march. As we advanced the forest became more dense and the trees larger and the traveling comparatively good.

As night approached and the shadows lengthened behind us I began to look for a suitable place to pass the night. Just at that time I happened to notice in the dusty road a fresh track going in the direction we were traveling, and, giving it closer inspection, I was satisfied that it was the track of a grizzly bear of an enormous size. I confess to a little chill creeping up my back. I had not yet become familiar with the habits of bears of that particular species. However, I could neither turn to the right or left, nor retreat. I had to follow right after Mr. Bear, even if I should overtake him. As it began to grow dusk we came to a small

pond of water, formed by a cienega, about which grew sufficient grass for my pony. It was closely surrounded by the forest of mountain pines. There I unpacked. and camped, gathering plenty of dry material for a fire, as I had resolved to keep it replenished during the night. I felt a degree of loneliness and depression that I had not previously experienced during the entire journey. I had never feared the Indians, but to sleep where a grizzly was liable to come into camp at any moment for his supper was not a very pleasant reflection, and the more. I thought about it, as the darkness increased in the gloomy depths of the surrounding forest the more likely it seemed to happen. I spread my blankets and made my bed beside a big pine log occasionally rising to replenish my fire. I heard, or thought I heard, the crackling of dry twigs during the night, and the approach of footsteps, but the morning found me and the pony in our normal condition, and with a better appetite for my breakfast than I enjoyed for my supper.

After another day's travel towards the summit of the Sierras, much of the way over a rough and precipitous road, through heavy forests of pine, we camped near large bodies of snow. The day had been mild, but the night was cold and cheerless. The stars shone with their usual brilliancy through the clear atmosphere of this high altitude, and the mountain peaks could be seen standing out bare and white like huge sentinels above the lower surrounding forests. There is something, an undefinable feeling that all men experience, I believe, when alone in the solitude of mountain camp: an awe and loneliness, that hardly can be expressed. What if I be taken suddenly ill or at