I followed the dim trail up hill and down dale for several hours without seeing a human being, and I felt quite satisfied that I was again off my road, but I pushed on in hopes of reaching some sort of habitation before dark. At last, in traveling up the side of a small creek, just as the sun was taking leave of us, I caught sight of a log cabin among the pine trees. It seemed to have been quite recently built, so I was pretty sure it was inhabited, and on riding up I found two men in it, from whom I learned that I was still five miles from my destination. They recommended me to stop the night with them, as it was nearly dark, and the trail was hard enough to find by daylight. I saw no help for it; so, after staking out the mule where he could pick some green stuff, I joined my hosts, who were just sitting down to supper. It was not a very elaborate affair--nothing but tea and ham. They apologized for the meagerness of the turn-out, and especially for the want of bread, saying that they had been away for a couple of days, and on their return found that the Indians had taken the opportunity to steal all their flour. We made the most of what we had, however, and putting a huge log on the fire, we lighted our pipes, and my entertainers, producing two violins, favored me with a selection of nigger melodies. They had been mining lately at the place which I had been trying to reach all day, and in the course of conversation I found that I had had all my trouble for nothing, as the man whom I was in search of had a few days before left the diggings for San Francisco. The next morning I returned to Foster’s Bar, my friends putting me on a much shorter trail than the roundabout road I had traveled the day before. CHAPTER XIII ON THE WAY TO DOWNIEVILLE From Foster’s Bar I set out for Downieville. On leaving the river, I had as usual a long hill to climb, but once on the top, the trail followed the backbone of the ridge, and was comparatively easy to travel. It was the main “pack-trail” to Downieville, and, being traveled by all the trains of pack-mules, was nearly ankle-deep in dust. The soil of the California mountains is generally very red and sterile, and has the property of being easily converted into exceedingly fine dust, as red as brick-dust, or into equally fine mud, according to the season of the year. At the end of a day’s journey in summer, the color of a man’s face is hardly discernible through the thick coating of dust, which makes him look more like a red Indian than a white man.