We Cross Marble Mountain and Find the Indian Ain't Got No Chance in White Men's Country
At long last we are to see Marble Mountain. Ever since we came to the Rivers, they have told us of Marble Mountain. It lies in a jumble of mountains somewhere between the Klamath and Scott's Valley, and famous packers like Mr. Hilding pass over it as they cross the mountains with supplies, instead of taking the long way around, by the Forks of Salmon and Sawyer's Bar. Now Mr. Mortsoff has written us from Hoopa that an Indian in Scott's Valley is in some trouble with the whites. He thinks it is in regard to land, and he asks us, when it is convenient, please to look into the matter.
Of course, we could go the long way around, but it would be both cheaper and pleasanter to take Steve and Annie as guides and cross the mountains. Steve's interest in the trip mounted when he learned that we planned to go to Etna. "We might get to ride in a buggy," he said hopefully.
We think he must mean a spring wagon. Few of the older Indians on the Rivers have ever ridden in a wagon. I do not think Steve has ever been in one. We had hoped to get off the day after the Fourth but for two days Steve has been off hunting for the mules. Steve found them in Orleans. Now they are back; and we are off for Marble Mountain the first thing in the morning. Everything is ready and all is smooth sailing except White Puppy.