could not be made along any of the immigrant roads then in use, and
Warner's orders were to look farther north up the Feather River, or
some one of its tributaries. Warner was engaged in this survey
during the summer and fall of 1849, and had explored, to the very
end of Goose Lake, the source of Feather River. Then, leaving
Williamson with the baggage and part of the men, he took about ten
men and a first-rate guide, crossed the summit to the east, and had
turned south, having the range of mountains on his right hand, with
the intention of regaining his camp by another pass in the
mountain. The party was strung out, single file, with wide spaces
between, Warner ahead. He had just crossed a small valley and
ascended one of the spurs covered with sage-brush and rocks, when a
band of Indians rose up and poured in a shower of arrows. The mule
turned and ran back to the valley, where Warner fell off dead,
punctured by five arrows. The mule also died. The guide, who was
near to Warner, was mortally wounded; and one or two men had arrows
in their bodies, but recovered. The party gathered about Warner's
body, in sight of the Indians, who whooped and yelled, but did not
venture away from their cover of rocks. This party of men remained
there all day without burying the bodies, and at night, by a wide
circuit, passed the mountain, and reached Williamson's camp. The
news of Warner's death cast a gloom over all the old Californians,
who knew him well. He was a careful, prudent, and honest officer,
well qualified for his business, and extremely accurate in all his
work. He and I had been intimately associated during our four
years together in California, and I felt his loss deeply. The
season was then too far advanced to attempt to avenge his death,
and it was not until the next spring that a party was sent out to
gather up and bury his scattered bones.