me I discover a couple of old fence-posts that have floated down from the Be-o-wa-we settlement above and lodged against the bank.  I determine to try and utilize them in getting the machine across the river, which is not over thirty yards wide at this point.  Swimming across with my clothes first, I tie the bicycle to the fence-posts, which barely keep it from sinking, and manage to navigate it successfully across.  The village of Be-o-wa-we is full of cowboys, who are preparing for the annual spring round-up.  Whites, Indians, and Mexicans compose the motley crowd.  They look a wild lot, with their bear-skin chaparejos and semi-civilized trappings, galloping to and fro in and about the village.  “I can’t spare the time, or I would,” is my slightly un-truthful answer to an invitation to stop over for the day and have some fun.  Briefly told, this latter, with the cowboy, consists in getting hilariously drunk, and then turning his “pop” loose at anything that happens to strike his whiskey-bedevilled fancy as presenting a fitting target.  Now a bicycle, above all things, would intrude itself upon the notice of a cowboy on a " tear” as a peculiar and conspicuous object, especially if it had a man on it; so after taking a “smile” with them for good-fellowship, and showing them the modus operandi of riding the wheel, I consider it wise to push on up the valley.

Three miles from Be-o-wa-we is seen the celebrated “Maiden’s Grave,” on a low hill or bluff by the road-side; and “thereby hangs a tale.”  In early days, a party of emigrants were camped near by at Gravelly Ford, waiting for the waters to subside, so that they could cross the liver, when a young woman of the party sickened and died.  A rudely carved head-board was set up to mark the spot where she was buried.  Years afterward, when the railroad was being built through here, the men discovered this rude head-board all alone on the bleak hill-top, and were moved by worthy sentiment to build a rough stone wall around it to keep off the ghoulish coyotes; and, later on, the superintendent of the division erected a large white cross, which now stands in plain view of the railroad.  On one side of the cross is written the simple inscription, “Maiden’s Grave;” on the other, her name, “Lucinda Duncan” Leaving the bicycle by the road-side, I climb the steep bluff and examine the spot with some curiosity.  There are now twelve other graves beside the original “Maiden’s Grave,” for the people of Be-o-wa-we and the surrounding country have selected this romantic spot on which to inter the remains of their departed friends.  This afternoon I follow the river through Humboldt Ca¤on in preference to taking a long circuitous route over the mountains.  The first noticeable things about this ca¤on are the peculiar water-marks plainly visible on the walls, high up above where the water could possibly rise while its present channels of escape exist unobstructed.  It is thought that the country east of the spur of the Red Range, which