of oxen and horses.  It would hardly be an exaggeration to say that we could have walked the forty miles and set our feet on a bone at every step!  The desert was one prodigious graveyard.  And the log-chains, wagon tyres, and rotting wrecks of vehicles were almost as thick as the bones.  I think we saw log-chains enough rusting there in the desert, to reach across any State in the Union.  Do not these relics suggest something of an idea of the fearful suffering and privation the early emigrants to California endured?

At the border of the Desert lies Carson Lake, or The “Sink” of the Carson, a shallow, melancholy sheet of water some eighty or a hundred miles in circumference.  Carson River empties into it and is lost—­sinks mysteriously into the earth and never appears in the light of the sun again—­for the lake has no outlet whatever.

There are several rivers in Nevada, and they all have this mysterious fate.  They end in various lakes or “sinks,” and that is the last of them.  Carson Lake, Humboldt Lake, Walker Lake, Mono Lake, are all great sheets of water without any visible outlet.  Water is always flowing into them; none is ever seen to flow out of them, and yet they remain always level full, neither receding nor overflowing.  What they do with their surplus is only known to the Creator.

On the western verge of the Desert we halted a moment at Ragtown.  It consisted of one log house and is not set down on the map.

This reminds me of a circumstance.  Just after we left Julesburg, on the Platte, I was sitting with the driver, and he said: 

“I can tell you a most laughable thing indeed, if you would like to listen to it.  Horace Greeley went over this road once.  When he was leaving Carson City he told the driver, Hank Monk, that he had an engagement to lecture at Placerville and was very anxious to go through quick.  Hank Monk cracked his whip and started off at an awful pace.  The coach bounced up and down in such a terrific way that it jolted the buttons all off of Horace’s coat, and finally shot his head clean through the roof of the stage, and then he yelled at Hank Monk and begged him to go easier—­said he warn’t in as much of a hurry as he was awhile ago.  But Hank Monk said, ’Keep your seat, Horace, and I’ll get you there on time’—­and you bet you he did, too, what was left of him!”

A day or two after that we picked up a Denver man at the cross roads, and he told us a good deal about the country and the Gregory Diggings.  He seemed a very entertaining person and a man well posted in the affairs of Colorado.  By and by he remarked: