Our horses fairly staggered under us, but we kept
on, full of hope, and certain of security.
We descended the hill that sloped to the crossing, winding our scarfs about our heads, and preparing for the passage, which, once accomplished, would make our rest secure.
Suddenly, from a clump of low fir-trees, an officer with a platoon of soldiers stepped out, with rifles to their faces, and called to us to surrender.
The soldiers were there concealed, waiting for Indians that might attempt to cross at this favourite pass, and we were upon them before we suspected an enemy within miles of us.
They were almost between us and the deep cut leading to the river that had been made by animals and Indians from time immemorial, and we could not reach it. To attempt to ascend the hill, up the trail, on our tired horses, had been certain death.
The officer called again. The Indian drew his pistol, called to us to leap our horses down the bank into the river, and as we did so, fired in the face of the officer. Then, with a yell of defiance, he followed us over the precipice into the boiling, surging river, cold and swollen from the melting snows of Mount Shasta.
It was a fearful leap; not far, but sudden and ugly, with everything on earth against us. My horse and myself went far down in the blue, cold river, but he rose bravely, and struck out fairly for the other
