OVER THE DESERTS OF NEVADA.

Gradually I leave the pine-clad slopes of the Sierras behind, and every
revolution of my wheel reveals scenes that constantly remind me that I
am in the great "Sage-brush State." How appropriate indeed is the name.
Sage-brush is the first thing seen on entering Nevada, almost the only
vegetation seen while passing through it, and the last thing seen on
leaving it. Clear down to the edge of the rippling waters of the Truckee,
on the otherwise barren plain, covering the elevated table-lands, up the
hills, even to the mountain-tops-everywhere, everywhere, nothing but
sagebrush. In plain view to the right, as I roll on toward Reno, are the
mountains on which the world-renowned Comstock lode is situated, and
Reno was formerly the point from which this celebrated mining-camp was
reached.

Before reaching Reno I meet a lone Washoe Indian; he is riding a diminutive,
scraggy-looking mustang. One of his legs is muffled up in a red blanket,
and in one hand he carries a rudely-invented crutch. "How will you trade
horses?" I banteringly ask as we meet in the road; and I dismount for
an interview, to find out what kind of Indians these Washoes are. To my
friendly chaff he vouchsafes no reply, but simply sits motionless on his
pony, and fixes a regular "Injun stare" on the bicycle. "What's the
matter with your leg?" I persist, pointing at the blanket-be-muffled
member.

"Heap sick foot" is the reply, given with the characteristic brevity
of the savage; and, now that the ice of his aboriginal reserve is broken,
he manages to find words enough to ask me for tobacco. I have no tobacco,
but the ride through the crisp morning air has been productive of a