And riding down the bank, he spurred into the water.—The Fair God.
And riding down the bank, he spurred into the water.—The Fair God.
When, at the conclusion of Pod's Aspen lecture, he gave the signal for our outfit to "move on," I breathed a sigh of relief. I abhor crowds; I despise shoemakers. They say that an ingrown nail is painful; an inpounded nail is worse. Pod said he wouldn't care if I had lockjaw; for then I'd have to keep my mouth shut.
"You ordered Bridget to call us at eight in the morning, didn't you?" Pod asked of his valet, when we were a mile out of town.
"I did that," Coonskin replied. Who could Bridget be? Surely the turtle, Bill, hadn't changed his name. I'd hate to have him pull me out of bed.
"Have the men got a woman stowed away in their luggage?" queried Cheese; "I hear 'em talking of some biddy."
"It's scandalous!" exclaimed Miss Damfino, and Miss Skates said she thought so, too. These words were hardly spoken when, about eight o'clock, we were strolling peacefully down the trail along the high bank of Roaring Fork River in the darkness, something with a shrill voice suddenly began to scream and kick up a terrible racket in one of my saddle bags, electrifying my whole being. Was Pod bewitched? Or was some demon upon me? I asked both questions at once, and not waiting for an answer, ran through the darkness blind with terror. Ears back, tail out straight, and legs spinning, I failed to see the trail, or hear my master's "Whoas!" I only thought the devil was after me, and flew through the air like a meteor. Soon the trail turned to the right, but I kept on straight ahead, and suddenly tumbled, tail over ears, down the steep bank into the rushing river, my master still holding on to reins and saddle horn. How deep I dived I can't say. The dampness poured into my ears and mouth and drowned my thoughts, and just when I had begun to think of my past life, I came to the surface with that demon still yelling and clinging to the saddle or to Pod. Then a terrific jerk on my bit brought me to my senses, and I swam to the nearest shore. It was a long, hard pull. Pod clung to me as though I were a life buoy, and when I climbed on to the bank out of breath, the screaming demon chased me half way up to the trail.
Pod's mouth was a flame of fire, but aimed more at Coonskin than at me. Reckon he thought me too wet to burn.
The whole outfit, including dog and turtle, awaited us with bated breath.
"We've found out who Bridget is," said Cheese, laughing.
"To the devil with Bridget!" I retorted. "What in the name of Balaam was that after us?"
"The new alarm clock, you fool," replied Cheese.
I was too full for utterance—too full of water. The Professor was a sight, even in the darkness. Never saw him so mad.
"Didn't you know that if at six o'clock you set the alarm for eight in the morning, it would ring at eight in the evening?" he vociferated, wildly gesticulating at his scared and speechless attendant.
Cautiously through the darkness we proceeded for a couple of miles, Pod walking to prevent taking cold, he said. Then we were steered to an old cedar stump, where we camped. Bridget's alarming voice had made a fearful impression upon me. Several times on the way to camp I imagined a demon was after me, and shied into the sage. Why, I've seen roosters and hens chase all over a half acre lot and jump a fence after losing their heads, simply from nervousness.
The cedar stump was set ablaze, and as soon as Pod had pitched the tent, he began walking around it dressed in his only suit of clothes, trying to get thoroughly dry. He was not in a good mood to talk with, so I kept aloof.
Next morning the valley and the mountains hemming it in revealed a beautiful and bountiful nature. Although alfalfa seemed to be the chief crop, fields of wheat and oats waved in the breeze. It was August; the harvest had hardly begun. The vendure on the mountains was not less lavish in its rare autumnal tintings than were the internal colorings of the hills with metals—copper, lead, silver and gold. Now the trail would hug the river so closely I could hear the roaring flood, and again the current would sink beyond reach of ear or eye, suddenly to burst upon us later.
The sun grew hotter with every hour's travel; the trail became more dusty; the prickly sage looked more browned and withered.
One evening, under the screen of darkness, the men pitched camp conveniently near to an alfalfa field, hay-stack, and potato cellar. The sage, while much seared by the sun, was yet too young and green to burn, so when Coonskin dropped two large boards in front of the tent Pod was elated. The fellow said he had unroofed a tater cellar. In view of the shady deed, Pod kindled the fire on the shady side of the tent and proceeded to cook the supper. We hadn't time to make our escape next morning before we heard the rattle of a wagon approaching. Presently a team of horses, driven by a short, morose-looking, black-whiskered farmer, stopped right in front of camp. Instinct told me he was the owner of the property we had "squatted on" and intended to make trouble. Pod was seldom embarrassed, but when so he appealed to Coonskin's wit and gall for the desired relief. The man climbed out of the wagon and walked toward the tent, until he saw Don, and stopped short.
Coonskin winked slyly at Pod and me under his hat-brim, and said to our caller, "Walk right in, sir, and make yourself miserable; the dog won't hurt you;" then Pod said a "Good morning" sweet and juicy. The stranger's sharp eyes surveyed the remaining board and the cremation ashes of the departed, and nodded sourly.
I was now saddled, and Coonskin was buckling on his belt with revolvers and hunting knife. Said he to our guest, "This traveling round the world on a bet ain't what it's cracked up to be."
"Reckon not," returned the stranger. And he asked, "Big bet."
"N-o-o, only fifteen thousand dollars."
The stranger grunted, as he mentally appraised the value of his lumber, and then regarded the men as if he wanted to put a price on their heads.
"Wouldn't been so bad," Coonskin resumed, "If one of our original party hadn't got scalped by Esquimaux when crossing the Arabian Desert."
"I want ter know!" the stranger exclaimed. "How did it happen?" As he spoke, he sat down near the board and whittled a stick, now and then eyeing Coonskin with overdue interest.
"Well, you see," the valet began, "we were trailing on the desert at night, because the sun in India is so hot, when he suddenly hailed what we took to be a caravan. But instead of one outfit, there were three, all of 'em enemies of each and tother—Hottentots, Spaniards, and Solomon Islanders, all at lagerheads. Say, weren't we in a nice mess!"
"'Pears so," the farmer ejaculated, with wrapt phiz.
"At once all tried to capture us," Coonskin continued, "but pretty soon fell to fighting among themselves; and that'e how we escaped. But Jack got shot." Coonskin looked as if he had lost his last friend.
"Poor Jack," muttered Prof., shaking his head sorrowfully.
I saw plainly the story had touched the stranger's heart. "Purty sad, wasn't it boys?" he commented. "Didn't ye have no shootin' irons along?" he asked.
"Should say we did—a whole battery," said the valet. "We shot several of the black demons (here waxing excited as he recalled the harrowing spectacle), but what was a thousand of them compared with one Jack!" And Coonskin tickled me in the ribs.
"Ner a hundred Jacks," returned the farmer absentmindedly, and looking thoughtful. Then Pod said it was time to be going, and offered to pay the farmer for the board he had much enjoyed; but the latter said he "didn't want no pay," and, after offering Pod and Coonskin his plug of tobacco, clambered into his wagon and drove off.
Then we made for Glenwood Springs.
TOC
BY PYE POD.
You may nail it on the pailing as a mighty risky planTo set your judgment on the clothes that cover up a man;It's a risky piece of business, for you'll often come acrossA fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss.—Old Saw.
You may nail it on the pailing as a mighty risky planTo set your judgment on the clothes that cover up a man;It's a risky piece of business, for you'll often come acrossA fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss.
You may nail it on the pailing as a mighty risky plan
To set your judgment on the clothes that cover up a man;
It's a risky piece of business, for you'll often come across
A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss.
We reached Glenwood Springs the week of the annual races, and I piloted my outfit to a prominent corner in town. At once a crowd gathered. After making a few remarks about my trip and promising a lecture before leaving town, I inquired for the leading hotel.
"The Colorado," answered a chorus. Then a man in shirtsleeves, sombrero, and high boots edged to my side, and whispered, "Prof, there's a dollar house t'other end of town. The tax is five dollars a day at the Colorado."
"How much can I make at the dollar house?" I asked.
My informant shrank into his clothes. "I don't believe you can make your salt," he answered.
I left my outfit, and rode Mac to the post office. I had not been indoors long before I heard loud cheers and laughter in the street. I rushed out, thinking somebody was making sport with my donkey, and was surprised to see Don leading by the reins that incorrigible flirt, Mac A'Rony, up-street toward the post office. He had strolled to the next corner to make the acquaintance of a prepossessing donk of the opposite sex, and my faithful dog, conscious of his responsibilities, was doing his duty.
The town is situated on the east bank of the Grand River; across, some distance from the water, stands the Hotel Colorado. An iron bridge spans the stream, and across it I led my caravan to the hotel in time for dinner. As I dismounted, the guests on the veranda hurried to the railing and whispered to one another; I paid no heed, but, giving my valet instructions to care for my animals, hurried in. The clerk extended his hand in greeting.
"Just on time," said he. "Lunch is awaiting you."
I shall never forget the sensation I caused when I entered the dining room. A sweeping glance detected every eye upon me. I sat at the nearest table opposite two dudes who almost choked to death when I reached for the menu card. Even the pretty waitresses stopped as if struck. One of the poor girls dropped a tray of dishes. Every countenance said plainly, "How did it drift in?" Several pretty girls at the next table, seasonably gowned in silks and muslins, whispered and giggled audibly.
Presently the dudes considered there wasn't room for us three at the table, and changed their seats so precipitately that one of them stumbled over the legs of his chair and broke his fall by first breaking a cup. As they now faced the pretty girls, their prospect was more inviting, if not picturesque. My hair and beard were long, one of my coat-sleeves threatened to come off with the slightest cough or sneeze; I looked like one who had experienced hardship and rough traveling.
This is a treat, I thought, as I divided my interest between the diners opposite and my menu card. I was famished. The waitresses kept aloof from me.
Suddenly my ear caught the words spoken by one of the dudes, "He acts as if he owned the dining room, and had first bid on the hotel." I smiled. Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and recognized the head-waiter, who, a moment before, had left the room probably to see the hotel clerk. He was all smiles, as he asked if I was being waited upon. I said I was not.
"I-I-I beg your humble pardon," he stammered, and off he danced. The next minute a half dozen waitresses were assailing me for my order. Finally I was lavishly served; then there was dissatisfaction at the next table. The dudes began to complain because that "hobo" received every attention while they were neglected.
Having received an invitation to the races, I did not tarry longer than necessary. I was sure things would be different when I returned for dinner. And such a change as there was! I was assigned to a table at which was a bevy of girls and two or three gentlemen. My seat had evidently been reserved for me by request. I didn't have to wait for the waitresses to pass me things, the girls did that. I was treated like a hero, and almost embarrassed with attentions. When I retired to dress for the ball given in my honor by the young women of Glenwood, I fell in a chair and laughed till my sides ached. What fun the study of human nature does afford!
The evening paper stated that the famous donkey traveler, Professor Pythagoras Pod would be the guest of the evening, and was expected to appear in traveling clothes, spurs, and belt guns. And so I attired myself, arriving at the hall at eight-thirty, and was at once introduced to one and all of the fair gathering. I danced myself completely out. When supper was announced I was glad. Had I traveled thirty miles that day I couldn't have felt more fatigued. It was almost eleven o'clock when I set out for my hotel.
One of the attractions at the Colorado is the great out-of-doors natatorium, between the river and the hotel. I had hardly crossed the bridge when I heard Mac's bray issuing from that quarter. The darkness and thick foliage obscured the view, but I heard splashing of water, and laughter, and another wild bray, and concluded some mischief was on the boards among the college students who were guests of the hotel. Quickening my pace, I stole through the shrubbery to the reservoir, and beheld a sight to cause me fright. There was a high chute beside the natatorium, and a staircase for the bathers to climb to the top "to shoot the chutes." There, almost at the top of the stairs, was my misused donkey, being carried to the source of the water raceway by several young men, the donkey braying and kicking frantically, the men struggling in the throes of smothered laughter as well as with their asinine burden. By the time I had collected my senses, Mac was deposited on the platform.
"Heigh, there!" I yelled at the top of my voice. "Drop that donkey, you ruffians!" They dropped him. And down he came, tobogganing over the slippery, watery chute, over and over, and landing in the pond, flat on his back. It didn't take long for Mac to finish his bath. When he rose to the surface he snorted and brayed louder than ever, and in swimming about to find a place he could climb out he chased every bather on to land. One of the men got a rope, and, several others assisting, pulled the frightened animal out. Without stopping to discuss the affair, I led Mac to his corral.
The following morning a committee persuaded me to deliver a lecture to the guests of the hotel. A notice was posted, announcing Pod's lecture to be delivered at 2 p. m. on the broad veranda in front of the hotel office.
I talked in my happiest vein. The interest manifested by my fair auditors would have inspired any lecturer.
larger"And floated on Salt Lake."
"And floated on Salt Lake."
larger"Skull Valley desert; we stopped to feed and rest."
"Skull Valley desert; we stopped to feed and rest."
I concluded with these words: "It is very gratifying for me to know so many are interested in Mac A'Rony's welfare. I hope to take him through with me to the Pacific. I do not like it to appear that I, while a guest of the hotel, am taking undue advantage of its privileges, but if there are any among you who desire a souvenir of our novel trip I have a few pictures which may be procured at twenty-five cents each. I now formally bid you all adieu."
The souvenirs went like hot cakes. Presently a sweet girl who had purchased three pictures, with beaming eyes and a winsome smile, asked, "Oh, Mr. Pod, won't you please put your autograph on these photos?"
"Certainly," I replied, "but each signature will cost twenty-five cents extra." I said it, just to see how it would take.
"Of course, I'll be glad to pay for the autographs," the maid returned, and handed me the photos to sign. And I was kept busy signing pictures until my hand ached.
My last afternoon in Glenwood was a busy one. I decided to heed the admonitions of many Westerners I had met, to avoid the Green River desert, a barren waste of shifting sands, utterly devoid of water, stretching a hundred and thirty miles and more, and, instead, to trail northwesterly via Meeker, White River, and the Ute Reservation. On the Meeker route I was promised fair grazing and ample water supply every twenty or thirty miles of the distance to the Mormon City.
It was five in the p. m. when Coonskin brought my caravan to the hotel, and saluting me, said, "Professor, your donkeys are ready and packed for the journey." The guests of the hotel, with few exceptions, were assembled to witness the start, and my dog in appreciation of the compliment strode grandly among the ladies and kissed their hands, and I believe bade every one an affectionate farewell.
I thought this a good time, for once on my trip, to put on stylish "airs." I had never called upon Coonskin to exercise the duties of a valet, in the strictest sense. As soon as he buckled the guns on the saddles, I dropped my ragged canvas leggings at his feet, put forth a foot, and gave him a significant look. Immediately the gallant "Sancho" knelt down on one knee and proceeded to lace the leggings on me, creating much amusement. I then made a short farewell address, got into Mac A'Rony's saddle, and gave the word to start. Such a cheer as arose from the ladies that lined the veranda! I'll bet there wasn't one who would have missed the event for a five dollar note.
Hugging the Grand River (the only hugging I had done in that section) until after dark, we trailed through the sage until ten o'clock, when, discovering a fair grazing place, I ordered camp.
My donkeys had just rested two days, so next day, the 28th day of August, I made them trail fast and far, in spite of the heat. It was five o'clock when we pitched camp near the Scott Ranch.
I had observed a cow and several hens about the ranch. If I couldn't get milk, I might still obtain fresh eggs, and vice versa. Not waiting to unpack for a can, I set out for the house and knocked at the back door.
"Come in," called a female voice.
I entered the kitchen with hat in hand and politely said, "How to do?" The sober-faced housewife did not pause in her duties as she welcomed me to be seated.
"I came to purchase some milk and eggs," I said presently.
"Ain't got no eggs er milk to spare jest now," she replied; "cows all dried up." My face reflected my disappointment.
"Are all your hens dry also?" I asked, as the woman deluged a big white cochin with a pan of dish-water.
"That one ain't," she returned, smiling at her play on a word and a hen. The incident, trifling as it was, served to break the "ice." I introduced myself and explained my journey; the woman was interested; she had read about me. She told me to make myself "at home," and, admitting that one cow still gave milk and she could spare me a little, she went to the creamery. When she handed me a pail of milk, I offered to pay for it, and persuaded her to sell me a loaf of bread. But I had hardly started for camp with my precious purchases than I was surrounded by a swarm of yellow-jackets which proceeded to alight on the rim of the pail and my hand. I dropped the milk instantly, if not sooner. The woman's exclamation of indignation embarrassed me. I explained and apologized, while my kind "hostess" tried to convince me of the docility of those yellow-jackets; from her account one might suppose they were merely a dwarf species of canary birds. But finally she forgave my indiscretion, refilled the pail, and handing it to me, told me the insects were perfectly harmless, and were not known to sting anybody, unless they were harmed. I thanked the woman for her exceptional generosity and rare treatise on "insectology" and again started for my tent, resolved to preserve that milk at any cost. But I soon wavered from my resolve; the pail wavered, too. I couldn't change it from one hand to the other fast enough to elude those docile yellow-jackets. Then I hit upon a new idea; it looked practical enough. I spilled some milk on the ground, and after weaning many hornets from the pail, I lifted the latter, covered it with my hat, and made for camp.
Now once in a while a babe is found hard to wean; the same may be said of a yellow-jacket. One buzzing fellow, doubtless young and feeble, and being tired from long flight, sat on my bald pate to rest, there to die a violent death. On that spot, although his remains were removed, was soon reared a monumental mound, sacred to his memory. I yelled before I remembered it was not manly to do such a thing, and the good madam hastening to my aid, if not relief, carried the pail of milk to my tent, also bringing with her a can of jam. Her kind, forgiving disposition mentally paralyzed me. My own unprecedented conduct almost made me hang my sore head with shame.
We men dined on bread and milk, and at seven o'clock struck out for Meeker. We had passed through the village of Newcastle when some fifteen miles from the Springs; and there were invited into a peach orchard to delight our palates with some delicious fruit, but no other village did we thread on our route to White River.
The last twenty miles of the journey led us across a series of divides, mesas or benches, variously called, and between these miniature watersheds trickled occasional rivulets which either lost themselves in the parched soil, or struggled on till they joined with a larger stream to reach a river. As the tired eye wanders over this sun-scorched wilderness, strewn with what appears to be volcanic matter, he imagines he sees on the black, rock-strewn butes the craters of long-extinct volcanos, which the ravages of time and the elements have almost leveled. And over these charred piles and the intervening plains of white and yellow sage one sometimes sees a solitary horse or steer standing bewildered, as if before impending doom, or else trending by animal instinct some tortuous, obscured trail to a hidden spring.
Meeker takes its name from a family, massacred by the Indians in the 70's. Four or five hundred inhabitants to-day compose this quiet and now law-abiding community, whose chief pursuits appear to be the pursuit of wild steers, horses, fish and game. White River flows past the town on its picturesque way to the Grand, the latter further on joining forces with the Green to form the Colorado.
The hills about Meeker abound with large game—mountain lions, bear, bobcats, and, when the snow comes, deer and elk. I was informed from authentic sources that in early winter the deer are driven by the snow down the river in to Grand Junction valley in such numbers that ranchmen have had to stand guard over haystacks with guns and pitchforks. One woman told me with modest candor that she had actually seen her husband catch and hold a deer in his arms.
After leaving Meeker the scenic views from the trail down and along White River for seventy miles are magnificent and imposing. Rising sheer and bold from the west bank of this deep stream, is a lofty ridge of brown and barren mountains, whose mural crests of red and yellow sandstone and limestone formed in my imagination the walls and watch-towers of castles of a prehistoric race, while the placid river at their base appeared to be a mighty moat to protect the towering battlements from menacing foe.
White River City lies some twenty miles south of Meeker. It has great possibilities. If another house were erected there, and it domiciled as many people as the one habitation then standing did, the population of the place would be increased 100 per cent. Even a part of that house was converted into a post office and a general store. About twenty-five miles from White River City is Angora, another town containing a single house. We arrived at sunset. The proprietor of this goat ranch invited me to pitch camp on his meadow lot, where my animals could find some feed, and treated me to a leg of goat. He possessed a herd of about two hundred Angoras, and derived his chief livelihood from their hair, hides, and "mutton," as he called it. I found the meat sweet and tender; it was hard to distinguish it from lamb; possibly because I had forgotten how lamb tasted. My host visited my camp-fire and entertained me with many interesting tales of adventure.
Occasional gardens and fields of alfalfa are seen on the east bank, all due to irrigation. Great water-wheels, turned by the river current, raise cans of water ten feet and more and empty them in troughs, so conveying the water to ditches.
Ranchmen had cautioned me to give Rangely, the next settlement, a "wide berth." I was told it was a den of outlaws and desperate cowboys, who lived by "rustling" cattle and rebranding them, hunting mavericks, (unbranded calves) and following other nefarious pursuits. Instead of frightening me away, these accounts interested me.
At four in the afternoon we came to a trail branching and leading to a large log house a half mile away. That was Rangely; and we headed for it.
TOC
BY MAC A'RONY.
I'll say of itIt tutors nature: artificial strifeLives in these touches, livelier than life.—Timon of Athens.
I'll say of itIt tutors nature: artificial strifeLives in these touches, livelier than life.
I'll say of it
It tutors nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.
Pod was always looking for trouble. The fellow who courts trouble finds it sooner or later. I brayed myself hoarse trying to persuade my reckless master to give Rangely a wide berth. He couldn't think of it. He was anxious to meet real wild-and-woolly-west cowboys of the old-time style; he didn't fear the worst of 'em.
"Hit the trail, there, Mac," he said, spurring me toward the hotbed of cowboy rascality. Arriving at the house-saloon-store-city-hall-business-headquarters of Rangely, the dozen rough-looking men lounging about swaggered toward us, pleased-like and curious.
"Prospectin'?" one inquired.
"N-o-o-o," Pod drawled; "just traveling." That was the time in Pod's life when he ought to have lied. Then he explained where he was from, and where he was bound, but did not say that he was a darn fool. The cowboys grunted, or nodded, or smiled, some winked to each other, and one of 'em nudged another in the ribs; everything they did had a deep meaning. I began to tremble for Pod. Would they shoot at his heels and make him dance? Or make him ride a bucking bronco? Or what?
"Better feed yer jacks, Mister," said one; "ye'll find grain in th' shed yender." Pod seemed to be as delighted as we donks.
"The Prof is going to catch it soon," Cheese observed.
"Serve him right," added Damfino.
Coonskin left us to feed and walked to the house with Pod. Soon afterward they returned with a cowboy, who said I had a good shape, asked my weight, and inquired if I was sound in body and mind; then he questioned Coonskin.
"What did you do fer yer salt 'fore ye jined th' outfit?"
"I was night porter in a hotel," was the reply.
"What was ye doin' 'fore that?"
"Railroading some."
"And 'fore that?"
"Painting."
"Paintin' what?"
"Church steeples."
"Golly! yer jest th' man we're lookin' fer."
Coonskin didn't quite understand them, but he did later.
"Bridle this 'ere jack," said the cowboy, meaning me. Coonskin bridled me and rode to the joint. I didn't think anything would happen to me. Several more cowboys had just come in from the range, and soon every man of the gang was busy. I now noticed one fellow mixing red paint; three or four were making two ladders; another one appeared with an armful of blankets; and another with ropes, and presently a cowboy climbed one of the ladders to the roof. Something was doing, sure. Pod seemed interested, but didn't say anything. Coonskin looked as if he saw his finish. I giggled.
Suddenly came a surprise. One cowboy wrapped the blankets round my body, while another bound them on with lariats; another trimmed my tail with a pair of sheepshears. Then ropes were fastened to my body and the other ends thrown to the men on the roof. Next the ropes were slung round the two chimneys at both ends of the roof, and thrown to the gang below. At once the cowboys grabbed hold and pulled, and I rose in the air, until my head bunked against the eaves. There I dangled and swung and kicked and brayed. Never was so scared in all my life. Splinters flew as I kicked holes in the house, and knocked off a section of the eaves. The cowboys howled, they thought it so funny. But the real circus began when Pod was commanded to mount a ladder with a pail of red paint, and using my tail for a brush, paint the name "R A N G E L Y" on that house. Coonskin was made to climb the other ladder with another pail of paint, and, he being a professional painter, with a real paint brush go over Pod's lettering to make a decent job of it.
Well, I had seen Pod mad, but never as mad as he was then. He grabbed my tail and started to paint a big letter R, when I up and kicked the pail out of his hands and sent red paint flying all over half the cowboys; not satisfied with this, I put a few more holes in the house, and finally hit the ladder and spilled Pod on the ground. The cowboys thought that was fun, too; some were so tickled they fired off their revolvers. Here Coonskin was told to divide his paint with Pod, and the painting was continued on the letter A.
The Prof worked as well as he could with such a nervous paint brush, now and then dodging my heels. I admit I didn't know what I was doing, when suddenly I struck my master in the stomach, and made him get down from the ladder. But the sign had to be finished. Up the ladder again Pod climbed like a man, the cowboys pulled on the ropes, dragging me along so that my tail could be brought to where the next letter should be. Then Pod started on the fourth letter, G. By this time the men were tugging on the ropes to keep me in position for the painter's convenience. Finally the men backed from the house and pulled me away from its side, and Pod turned me about till I hung the other end to, and began the fifth letter, E.
Now I could see the sign. It was up hill. I knew it wouldn't suit those cowboys, and I expected it would have to be painted over. It wasn't Pod's fault, it wasn't mine. As I was gradually pulled along the eaves the higher I was raised, because there was no pulley on the rope. But now that I was turned about, I was swung back some, and the E had to be painted below the level of the first four letters. L and Y followed each other up hill, until, just as the job was finished, I hit the pail a crack with my right foot and sprinkled two more cowboys. The crowd made sport of them, and I think, after all, those cowboys fared worse than we three painters. Then I was lowered to the earth.
To my surprise, the cowboys liked the sign immensely. One pronounced it artistic, another said it was odd and people would notice it, and several agreed that it was the best job of its kind they ever saw. Pod didn't seem to be tickled over this flattery, but Coonskin was puffed up with pride, and when one fellow told him he ought to have stuck to painting, he acknowledged that he should have done so.
When the two started down the ladders the cowboys called: "Hold on there, we want a speech." So the Prof made a speech. Both men were then escorted indoors and the barkeeper mixed a high-ball in a pail and sent it out to me. I was "loony" for hours afterwards.
I never want another experience like that. Pod said afterward it was his first and last painting. He thought the cowboys might have shot a pipe out of his mouth, but he hadn't thought they could condescend to such a low trick as to make him paint a sign with his donkey's tail. The cowboys wanted us to spend the night with them, but Pod replied that he couldn't tarry, but he said he was much obliged for all their courtesies. About dark we said good-bye, and pretending we would travel ten miles that evening, pitched camp near a bridge crossing White River, one or two miles from Rangely. At dawn the men were out after sage hens. They saw several, but couldn't get a shot at the shy creatures.
We started early and traveled over a desolate wilderness of sage and greasewood in a torturing sun, and were unpacked at one o'clock for an hour's rest. Sometimes the trail led through deep channels in the hard-baked sand for several hundred yards, where we were obscured from view. These channels wound about through the desert and mesa, as if they might be the beds of dried-up rivers; and they were often so narrow that had we met a wagon either our outfit or the vehicle would have had to turn back. We came across quantities of skeletons and skulls of horses and cattle and wild animals, but I failed to see any donkey's bones. Don was glad when in these cuts, for he managed there to keep in the shade, while trailing in the open he was ever trotting ahead to hide under a bush where three-fourths of him was exposed to the sun.
Toward the middle of the afternoon we crossed the backbone of the plateau, at an altitude of seven thousand feet, and met a wagon with four horses, bound for Leadville with honey. The driver said he was from Vernal, some sixty miles to the west. Pod thought honey would go well with hot cakes for supper, and after some coaxing got the freighter to break a case and sell him a half dozen boxes. Then the question arose, how could he safely carry the honey?
"Good idee not to put all your eggs in one basket," Coonskin remarked. Pod said he wouldn't. He tucked one box in a saddle-bag, another in a roll of blankets strapped behind his valet's saddle, another in a bag of supplies on Skates, and the last two he packed carefully in the canvas awning. The men conversed and smoked awhile, when the stranger happened to mention that he sometimes dealt in hides. Here was the chance the men were waiting for. The bearskin Skates had carried from Turkey Creek belonged to the poker-player, but he promised half what he should get for it to Pod, if he would let the donks carry it till disposed of. The man said he was willing to give $60 for a fine silvertip skin, so Coonskin unpacked. The stranger was more pleased with it than he would admit, and hemmed and hawed some about the price, but finally paid the $60, and we moved on.
It was six o'clock, and the sun was sinking behind the distant plain when the buildings of the K ranch loomed in the distance. The sound of galloping horses approaching us from behind caused me to look around, and I beheld two Indians with guns in hand, yelling and gesticulating wildly as they leaned over their ponies' necks, spurring hard to catch up with us. When Pod and Coonskin saw the Indians after them, they got ready to throw up their hands. Their faces were as chalky as an alkali desert.
"Have you seen any cattle branded U. S.?" one of the wild men inquired. Pod said he hadn't.
"Where you from?" questioned the half-breed. Pod said: "White River country."
"Ah, we just from there—been hunting up stolen cattle," the half-breed replied. "Found them, but fellows wouldn't give them up. We've done our duty; the fort must deal with them now."
Pod asked what fort, and was told Fort Duchesne, some seventy miles away. We learned that two companies of colored troops of the U. S. army were stationed there. The Indians never touched us.
TOC
BY PYE POD.
"Dost not hear the neighing of horses, the blare of the trumpets, the beating of the drums?""I hear nothing," said Sancho, "but a great bleating of ewes and wethers." And this was true, for the two flocks had now come up near them.—Don Quixote.
"Dost not hear the neighing of horses, the blare of the trumpets, the beating of the drums?"
"I hear nothing," said Sancho, "but a great bleating of ewes and wethers." And this was true, for the two flocks had now come up near them.—Don Quixote.
The great K ranch welcomed us just before dark. My animals were generously fed, and we men soon joined the Indian policemen at supper in the house.
When, next morning, the foreman saw us pack the donkeys, he expressed surprise at my traveling with such a luxurious camp outfit. The folding table and chairs, awning, many blankets and other articles were condemned as disgraceful by this experienced plainsman; so, my sensibilities being shocked by such a criticism, I abandoned a hundred pounds of luggage, giving the table, chairs and superfluous blankets to the ranchman, and selling him the awning; then we resumed the journey.
Green River was twenty-five miles to the west. The journey was even more monotonous than that of the previous day. The powdered alkali rose in our faces and penetrated our eyes and throats, compelling us almost constantly to sip from our canteens, wrapped in wet cloths to keep the water cool. Frequently my dog would jump at the larger canteens in the panniers and bark for a drink. I loved to watch him lie down in the narrow shade of a donkey, and, resting his chin on the rim of the basin, slowly lap the frugal measure of water I was able to spare him.
We reached Green River by five, and waited until the ferryman awoke from his daydream to guide the flat-boat across the stream for us. He charged me only two dollars. I thought it very decent of him, as the river was too deep to be forded and he controlled the only ferry; our only alternative was to swim this treacherous stream. Several overland travelers with prairie schooners were in camp on the opposite shore, eastward bound.
I paid a dollar to graze my animals in an alfalfa field for the night, but when we left for Vernal next morning every donkey had the stomach-ache. They grunted and groaned on the march until noontime, and deplored their gluttony with sundry brays that were grating on the nerves.
Vernal is a veritable oasis in a desert, nestling in a broad and fertile valley, which, irrigated from the numerous springs in the mountains forming a rampart round it, is a garden of vivid green. Farmhouses dot the orchards and meadows everywhere, and the village itself is splendidly shaded. Honey is a leading industry; one can see bee-hives in almost every door yard.
After a good supper with a stranger who offered his hospitality, we two strolled about the flower-scented streets in the cool evening air, until we retired to a downy bed in his apartment that made me wish my trip at an end. Here were no mosquitoes. The fruits of this valley are prolific and delicious, and haven't a blemish; the water is pure, and the climate healthful and exhilarating; surely Vernal received its name from Nature.
The frontier post, Fort Duchesne, lay twenty-eight miles to the south, across a desert waste. A few miles beyond Vernal we entered the Uintah Indian Reservation. Further on we saw the shacks and teepees of the Utes, and once we passed a party of this treacherous tribe on their ponies. Apparently taking us for desperadoes, they veered off to some distance in the sage and gave us a "wide berth." The strength and humility of their little steeds was surprising. Several of them carried four and five people, the buck sometimes with a boy in front of him and his squaw astride behind him with a papoose strapped to her back, and a boy or girl behind her. When they saw Damfino with her towering pack they, too, perhaps, did some wondering.
We crossed the bridge spanning the Uintah River just before sunset, and reached the guardhouse of the fort just as the bugle sounded retreat parade. To my surprise and delight the officer of the day, Lieut. Horne, was adjutant and chief commissary, and better still, an old classmate. And when, after parade, I saw the popular officer crossing the parade ground to meet me, I wondered if the changes wrought in our appearance by the lapse of thirteen years would make us both unrecognizable. Our meeting was amusing. The orderly ushered me into the officer's presence, and I advanced and grasped my old friend's hand in a manner to convince him that I knew him; but while we shook hands vigorously and playfully punched each other in the shoulders, the puzzled man could not speak my name.
"You old fool! Don't you know me?" I asked, still shaking his hand.
"You disgraceful old vagabond! Of course I know you; but blast me if I can place you," he returned grinning all over. "Who are you for heaven's sake? Where 're you from, and how did you get here? Speak, man! Relieve me of suspense, if you don't want to get shot by a colored regiment of United States troopers."
"Why," I asked, "is it possible that you do not recollect your old classmate; the famous pillow fight at S—'s Hotel? The mock fight with our old chum, Mike H—n, in my room, when you frightened the boy from West Virginia half to death with—?"
"Pod! Blast me, if it ain't Pod!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "Well, well, if this doesn't beat me. Sit down and tell me about it. I am glad to see you. But you do look rough. Prospecting? Or fighting Indians? Or what?"
I explained. My animals, I said, were waiting outside in the care of my valet. Horne rose in astonishment.
"Traveling overland with a valet!" he exclaimed. "You are a beautiful looking swell. I have often read about you, but, blast me! if I ever once suspected it was my old chum making the famous trip. Show me the jackasses." Forthwith I escorted the laughing Lieutenant out and presented Mac A'Rony.
I spent two enjoyable days at Fort Duchesne, as the guest of my friend. One of the first to call upon me was the genial Colonel commanding. He asked me to lecture to the residents of the post. Accordingly, I gave my talk that evening to a large audience, and at its conclusion I was introduced to many ladies and officers of the post and afterwards entertained at the army club.
The following day, at one o'clock, my outfit was ready to start. The donkeys were in fine fettle, and Don frisked about gayly, eager for the journey. My friend regretted I could not spend a month with him, and tucked a package in my saddle-bag by which to remember him, and many officers and ladies joined with him in wishing me God-speed. Then we waved an adieu and climbed the long, sage-covered mesa, toward Heber City, a hundred and thirty-mile march without a habitation in view.
Fort Duchesne was still in sight when a hailstorm struck us. The donkeys were compelled to close their eyes and turn their backs to the fearful charges of the merciless elements, while we men pulled our hats over our eyes, put our hands in our pockets, and crouched under our animals; still we were severely bruised, and our necks and arms were black and blue. When the hail ceased, the leaden clouds poured down a cold rain, which beat in our faces and greatly impeded travel. The trail was soon converted into a veritable torrent; the sand or rock-waste soil softened into mire many inches deep, causing the stubbornly faithful burros to slip and stumble and labor as they never did before.
We had journeyed only sixteen miles when, at eight o'clock, we pitched camp on the banks of the swollen Lake Fork River. The night was black. What a nasty predicament! No bottom to the soil anywhere; the mud and water reached to my boot-tops. Before unpacking we cut sage brush and trampled it into a large square bed two feet deep, on which to place our packs. Then, picketing the animals, we tried to kindle a fire with water-soaked brush sprinkled with coal oil; but failed. Soon a ranchman arrived leading his horse, and said he had almost lost his steed while fording the river and narrowly escaped drowning. He joined us in a cold supper of canned meat and corn, whiskey and water, then rode away in the pouring rain.
Our bed that night was anything but inviting. We could not pitch the tent. The soaked sage and the rain saturated our canvas sleeping-bag and dampened our clothing. How I regretted having disposed of those "superfluous" blankets at the K ranch. We were not only wet, but cold, rolled in two blankets and a quilt. When I awoke in the morning I even wrung the water out of the underwear I had slept in, and, also, my trousers and coat before I could get them on, and then in the still pouring rain ate a cold breakfast, saddled, packed, and resumed the trip.
That day we made twenty miles, and "ran" as terrible a gauntlet of thunderbolts as I ever witnessed. Next day it became necessary to swim Lake Fork. Mac said it was his Rubicon as well as mine.
The current was swift, and roared and foamed like a mountain torrent. My donkeys, brought to the water's edge, reared and wheeled and rushed intractably into the willows, scraping off their packs on the miry banks; it required a half hour to replace and securely cinch the luggage on the beasts so that it might not be washed away. Then, with stout willow goads and howling invectives, we drove the braying animals into the flood and followed them, fording or swimming across the river. Cheese was carried down stream and almost drowned.
Gaining the nether bank we tramped through storm and mire all day, making eighteen miles, and after dark camped with the party of a prairie schooner at the foot of a hill, where we found seasoned cedar stumps for fuel, and built a roaring fire. The soil there was more solid, the land gently sloping, and we pitched the tent near the wagon and fire, staked the donkeys, and joined hands with our chance acquaintances to provide the evening meal. The good woman of the party gave us a pie, a can of beef and a loaf of bread; these luxuries, together with boiled potatoes and hot coffee, put our bodies in prime condition for a sound night's sleep in wet garments and bedding. My provisions were not only quite spoiled by the rain and river water, but were insufficient to last us through.
Rising early, we breakfasted in the rain, and traveled only fifteen miles, swimming the Duchesne River once and fording it twice that day. The stream was somewhat deeper than Lake Fork, but the current less swift, and at every crossing my donkeys rebelled. Soon after the last fording, the sun broke through the clouds, and gave us an opportunity to dry ourselves and freight. A patch of wild meadow enabled my animals to fill their empty stomachs with grass, while some giant sage brush soon dried in the broiling sun, allowing us to spread our blankets and soaked apparel thereon. We unpacked, and cooked, and when our clothes were dry enough to feel comfortable and shrunken enough hardly to be got on, we resumed the march. Our supplies were in a mess. Our only can of coal oil was broken, and the contents had seasoned every eatable not canned. The forgotten boxes of honey had been smashed, and everything was gummed with it; every pack smelled like a bee-hive. The honey I rolled in our underwear, diluted with the water of the several fords, had permeated the raiment so thoroughly that now the heat of our bodies began to warm it up, and my clothes were soon glued to my skin.
That night we camped on Current Creek, after fording the stream. A bear appeared, but scampered grunting into the thicket, my dog not inclined to give chase. Once I was awakened by the cry of a mountain lion, and Coonskin said the yelps of wolves kept the dog growling and snarling half the night through.
It appeared that we were experiencing the fall equinox. Wearily traveling through another day of rain, we camped for the night near a bunch of dwarf cedars. Now the rain ceased for a couple of hours, and enabled us to kindle a fire and cook before lightning played on every hand and the rain descended again. Our largest canteen leaked from some accident it had received, and our surprise and despair on discovering the emptied receptacle may be imagined. What should we do for drinking water? I had not more than asked the question than my eye discerned several small basins in the table rocks close by. These basins were filled, but were so shallow that only by dipping the water with a saucer could we obtain a two-quart can of the precious liquid; next morning we secured another frugal supply for the ensuing day's journey.
Our luggage was placed under two cedars for protection from the storm. During the night we were awakened by the terrific crash of a thunderbolt, which struck so near as to shock us. In the morning I saw that one of the trees had been struck. But our packs were uninjured, save the whiskey bottle, which was broken and its precious contents lost. Thus the sympathy existing between "Jersey lightning" and Utah lightning. Another day's tramp over a muddy trail, and a night camp on another roaring stream, Red Creek; our supplies quite exhausted, we boiled some onions and ate them with the last of our honey. I felt as if I were eating diphtheria medicine. Next morning we breakfasted on a turkey buzzard shot by Coonskin, and that afternoon my jaded caravan crossed the summit of the plateau, and descended into the beautiful Strawberry Valley in the glow of a gorgeous sunset. Soon after, we met two sheep-herders on horseback, looking for two comrades, and, when crossing the broad, verdant valley, we saw two great flocks of sheep, one grazing up the valley, the other down. We camped near Strawberry Creek. The four sheep-herders rode up presently and having a wagon full of supplies, said if I would lend them my tent-poles they would string up a lamb and divide. I gladly consented. Two of the herders rode off to mill up the flocks for the night, while the other two butchered a sheep, built a fire and cooked.
If the scene of that highland camp could have been painted with true color and detail, it certainly would have made the artist famous. A few feet from the flaming fire stood my tent-poles like a tripod, and from their apex was suspended, head down, a fat mutton; on bended knee with hunting knife in hand, one of the herders was taking its woolly pelt. The coffee-pot and frying-pan were on the fire with a kettle of boiling potatoes, and, while the shepherd-cook was preparing bread for my Dutch oven, two herders gathered sage for a reserve supply of fuel.
Some fifty feet way the horses were picketed, and across the stream the donkeys grazed on the juicy grass, untethered but none the less secure in the novel corral of twenty thousand sheep which the faithful shepherd dogs promised to keep milled round us all throughout the black, chilly night. The camp-fire sent flashlight beams on the surrounding scene, and etched weird pictures on the darkness. The silhouetted heads and backs of the horses and donkeys moved fantastically against the starry sky like animated mountain peaks on the distant horizon; the vast field of wool encompassing us and the bleating of its contented life seemed like the troubled waters of some highland lake imprisoning us on its one small island; and away across the vale and again just above us towered the barrier of mountains against the sparkling heavens, forming banks and pillows for stray clouds to sleep upon.
At a late hour we hungry men sat down to a tasty supper of fried mutton, potatoes, hot bread and coffee. The air soon rang with laughter. Later when we brought forth our companionable pipes and began story-telling round the cozy fire, I felt a delight which seemed a full compensation for the hardships we had suffered during the last week. Suddenly the cry of a mountain lion set the collies barking, but the report of a herder's rifle silenced the prowler and sent him back, no doubt, into the hills. The lions and wolves are a constant menace to the flocks in that popular valley.
It was midnight when we retired. Storm-clouds had gathered and shut out the light of the stars; it looked and felt like snow. The shepherds, learning that we travelers were short of bedding, brought us two heavy woolen blankets; so we rolled ourselves together and were soon asleep, and in the morning awoke, covered with snow an inch deep. By seven o'clock we were ready to resume our journey and the shepherds had saddled their mounts for their day's duties.
Trailing out of the valley, and through Daniel's Canyon, we traveled some twenty-five miles down to the lowlands, and at nine in the evening pitched camp near where, next morning, we discovered a ranchhouse and haystack.
Heber City lay five miles away; arriving there we were royally entertained.
Friday we started for Provo. The trail lay through a picturesque canyon, along the bank of Provo River, where the mountains rose sheer and barren to a great height on either hand. Numerous waterfalls pour their loveliness over steep declivities; patches of crimson and yellow verdure showed in the crevices of the gray summits; and now and then a terraced vineyard or orchard or an irrigation ditch, hugging the steep slopes, indicated a habitation was hidden somewhere near in leafy bower or vine-covered trellis. Once we crossed the river on a new iron bridge replacing an old stone structure which avalanches had demolished.
Passing the night in Provo, I rode Skates six miles to Springville, through a beautiful, verdant valley, where rows of poplars lined the fields and orchards, reminding one of Normandy. There I was greeted by a newspaper editor and a school principal, the latter inviting me to dinner.
Returning to Provo I found my outfit ready for trail. Making a brief stop in Lehi, we reached Pleasant Grove about eight, and camped in a peach orchard adjoining a hotel. The landlord welcomed us to a hot supper, in spite of the late hour, then offered us a downy bed, which we declined, preferring the pure, crisp outer air.
I boarded the early morning train for Salt Lake City to attend Sunday service at the Tabernacle and hear the famous organ and choir. Coonskin remained behind to care for our animals.
Without my donkeys to identify me, my rough, unkempt and most eccentric person caused a sensation at the Mormon capital. I kept aloof from everybody, and nobody was inquisitive enough to inquire my name, errand, and previous condition of servitude. I strolled about the beautiful city, and then went to church.