The second day from Beaver creek we reached a little stream near
the Goshoot village, this being the place where Uncle Kit finished
buying furs to load his pack-train in 1848.
The next morning we reached the village. I had not seen any of
these Indians for five years. Then I was a mere boy and now a
grown man, but every one of the Goshoots knew me and were glad to
meet me. We stopped that day and visited with them, and bought
some venison and frigoles, or beans.
The next morning we resumed our journey to Los Angeles, crossing
the extreme northeast part of Death Valley. From here on the
country was all new to me, and had it not been for the kindness of
the Goshoot Indians, we would have perished for the want of water.
When I told a good Indian in that village where we were going, he
sat down and with his finger marked a diagram in the dust, showing
the lay of the country that we must pass ever, every little blind
spring near the trail, the different mountains and valleys, and
made it so plain that we could scarcely have made a mistake on the
trip.
On arriving at Los Angeles we found only one white man in the
place, and he was the only person in the whole town that could
speak the English language. He had arrived there some years
before, married a Mexican woman and had got to be very wealthy. He
tried to induce us to go farther up the coast, telling us if we
started for San Francisco the country was full of Mexicans, and
that they despised all Americans and would be sure to murder us on
our way; but as we had started for San Francisco, we were
determined to see that city if possible.
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