of the journey by railroad. The Pacific Railroad id completed
twelve miles to Folsom, leaving only 2188 miles to go by stage.
This breaks the monotony; but as it is midwinter and as there are
well substantiated reports of the Piute savages being in one of
their sprightly moods when they scalp people, I do not I may say
that I do not leave the Capital of California in a light-hearted
and joyous manner. But "leaves have their time to fall," and I
have my time to leave, which is now.

We ride all day and all night, and ascend and descend some of the
most frightful hills I ever saw. We make Johnson's Pass, which is
6752 feet high, about two o'clock in the morning, and go down the
great Kingsbury grade with locked wheels. The driver, with whom I
sit outside, informs me, as we slowly roll down this fearful
mountain road, which looks down on either side into an appalling
ravine, that he has met accidents in his time, and cost the
California Stage Company a great deal of money; "because," he says,
"juries is agin us on principle, and every man who sues us is sure
to recover. But it will never be so agin, not with ME, you bet."

"How is that?" I said.

It was frightfully dark. It was snowing withal, and
notwithstanding the brakes were kept hard down, the coach slewed
wildly, often fairly touching the brink of the black precipice.

"How is that?" I said.

"Why, you see," he replied, "that corpses never sue for damages,
but maimed people do. And the next time I have a overturn I shall