250 MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION. 
May 11th.—Shotgun Creek; my camp is on 
the side of a steep mountain, and, about a 
mile farther on, is another stream, Mary’s Creek. 
Camped on this stream was a small pack-train, 
that had been with stores to some mining-station. 
I heard wolves barking and howling all night, 
and twice I drove them out of my camp with a 
fire-log. The next morning, as I passed the 
camp of the packers, they were in sad grief. The 
rascally wolves had pulled down one of their 
mules, and torn it almost to pieces. I rode up 
in the wood to see its mangled remains. The 
ravenous beasts must have fixed on its haunches, 
and ripped it up whilst it lived. I was sadly 
grieved for the poor beast that had come to so 
untimely an end, and for the man who had lost 
him—at least 30/. worth. 
For two more days I followed up the course of 
the Sacramento, and crossed it for the last time. 
Standing at the ford, and looking straight up the 
valley, the scenery is wild and beautiful in the 
extreme ; on either side sharp pinnacle-like rocks 
shoot up into all sorts of fantastic shapes, dotted 
with the sugar-pine, scrub-oak, and manzanata 
in front; and blocking up, as it were, the end 
of the valley, stood Mount Shasta, at this time 
covered to its base with snow. 
