I intended to write home, but I haven’t done it. 
                                             Yr.  Bro. 
          
                                             Sam.

In this letter we realize that he had gone into the wilderness to reflect—­to get a perspective on the situation.  He was a great walker in those days, and sometimes with Higbie, sometimes alone, made long excursions.  One such is recorded in Roughing It, the trip to Mono Lake.  We have no means of knowing where his seventy-mile tour led him now, but it is clear that he still had not reached a decision on his return.  Indeed, we gather that he is inclined to keep up the battle among the barren Esmeralda hills.

        Last mining letter; written to Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis: 

Esmeralda, Cal., Aug. 15, 1862.  My dear sister,-I mailed a letter to you and Ma this morning, but since then I have received yours to Orion and me.  Therefore, I must answer right away, else I may leave town without doing it at all.  What in thunder are pilot’s wages to me? which question, I beg humbly to observe, is of a general nature, and not discharged particularly at you.  But it is singular, isn’t it, that such a matter should interest Orion, when it is of no earthly consequence to me?  I never have once thought of returning home to go on the river again, and I never expect to do any more piloting at any price.  My livelihood must be made in this country —­and if I have to wait longer than I expected, let it be so—­I have no fear of failure.  You know I have extravagant hopes, for Orion tells you everything which he ought to keep to himself—­but it’s his nature to do that sort of thing, and I let him alone.  I did think for awhile of going home this fall—­but when I found that that was and had been the cherished intention and the darling aspiration every year, of these old care-worn Californians for twelve weary years—­I felt a little uncomfortable, but I stole a march on Disappointment and said I would not go home this fall.  I will spend the winter in San Francisco, if possible.  Do not tell any one that I had any idea of piloting again at present—­for it is all a mistake.  This country suits me, and—­it shall suit me, whether or no....

Dan Twing and I and Dan’s dog, “cabin” together—­and will continue to do so for awhile—­until I leave for—­

The mansion is 10x12, with a “domestic” roof.  Yesterday it rained—­the first shower for five months.  “Domestic,” it appears to me, is not water-proof.  We went outside to keep from getting wet.  Dan makes the bed when it is his turn to do it—­and when it is my turn, I don’t, you know.  The dog is not a good hunter, and he isn’t worth shucks to watch —­but he scratches up the dirt floor of the cabin, and catches flies, and makes himself generally useful in the way of washing dishes.  Dan gets up first in the morning and makes a fire—­and