To-night I stay in Winnemucca, the county seat of Humboldt County, and quite a lively little town of 1,200 inhabitants.  “What’ll yer have.” is the first word on entering the hotel, and “Won’t yer take a bottle of whiskey along.” is the last word on leaving it next morning.  There are Piutes and Piutes camped at Winnemucca, and in the morning I meet a young brave on horseback a short distance out of town and let him try his hand with the bicycle.  I wheel him along a few yards and let him dismount; and then I show him how to mount and invite him to try it himself.  He gallantly makes the attempt, but springs forward with too much energy, and over he topples, with the bicycle cavorting around on top of him.  This satisfies his aboriginal curiosity, and he smiles and shakes his head when I offer to swap the bicycle for his mustang.  The road is heavy with sand all along by Winnemucca, and but little riding is to be done.  The river runs through green meadows of rich bottom-land hereabouts; but the meadows soon disappear as I travel eastward.  Twenty miles east of Winnemucca the river arid railroad pass through the ca¤on in a low range of mountains, while my route lies over the summit.  It is a steep trundle up the fountains, but from the summit a broad view of the surrounding country is obtained.  The Humboldt River is not a beautiful stream, and for the greater part of its length it meanders through alternate stretches of dreary sage-brush plain and low sand-hills, at long intervals passing through a ca¤on in some barren mountain chain.  But “distance lends enchantment to the view,” and from the summit of the mountain pass even the Humboldt looks beautiful.  The sun shines on its waters, giving it a sheen, and for many a mile its glistening surface can be seen — winding its serpentine course through the broad, gray-looking sage and grease-wood plains, while at occasional intervals narrow patches of green, in striking contrast to the surrounding gray, show where the hardy mountain grasses venturously endeavor to invade the domains of the autocratic sagebrush.  What is that queer-looking little reptile, half lizard, half frog, that scuttles about among the rocks.  It is different from anything I have yet seen.  Around the back of its neck and along its sides, and, in a less prominent degree, all over its yellowishgray body, are small, horn-like protuberances that give the little fellow a very peculiar appearance.  Ah, I know who he is.  I have heard of him, and have seen his picture in books.  I am happy to make his acquaintance.  He is “Prickey,” the famed horned toad of Nevada.  On this mountain spur, between the Golconda miningcamp and Iron Point, is the only place I have seen him on the tour.  He is a very interesting little creature, more lizard than frog, perfectly harmless; and his little bead-like eyes are bright and fascinating as the eyes of a rattlesnake.

Alkali flats abound, and some splendid riding is to be obtained east of Iron Point.  Just before darkness closes down over the surrounding area of plain and mountain I reach Stone-House section-house.