larger"A. Independence Pass . . . one of the loftiest of the Continental Divide.""B. Trail to Florisant.""C. Two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass."
"A. Independence Pass . . . one of the loftiest of the Continental Divide."
"B. Trail to Florisant."
"C. Two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass."
TOC
BY MAC A'RONY.
The Professor, scorning to waste shoe leather and economize francs, began the ascent on a mule steered by a woman holding on to the beast's tail.—Easter on the Riviera.
The Professor, scorning to waste shoe leather and economize francs, began the ascent on a mule steered by a woman holding on to the beast's tail.—Easter on the Riviera.
A curious proceeding held my rapt attention as we neared Petersburg, a suburb of Denver. At the terminus of a horse-car line I observed a car approaching us down-grade, with a horse on its rear platform. As soon as the car stopped at the station the horse stepped off on a platform and took his place in front of the car, ready to haul it up-grade again and earn another ride. I did not have the chance to ask the horse how he enjoyed it, but I would willingly have exchanged places with him.
Next morning, to my surprise, Coonskin was the first to rise. Our camp was near Littleton, on the banks of a small stream, and here at early dawn that ambitious youth gathered a panful of glittering wet sand, and rushed into the tent with it, almost out of breath.
"Look here, Pod!" he called, excitedly, "see the strike I've made! The river bottom is yellow with gold!"
Then I heard Pod say, "Rich, I should say! Funny this placer hasn't been discovered before now."
"Let's file a claim," said Coonskin, "we can make a million in six months."
"Let's!" the Professor exclaimed. As soon as breakfast was over both tenderfeet were trying their luck at panning gold. A cabin stood not far away, and presently there issued from it an old man who approached the argonauts, and sat on a log to watch them.
"Your first experience at placer mining?" the stranger observed.
"For an instant both men looked confused. I could see that Coonskin didn't want to reveal his newly discovered fortune by the way he dumped his sand and said nothing. But Pod held on to a frying-pan full of sand with one hand, and reached for his revolver with the other to defend his claim.
"Well, boys," observed the native, laughing, "you're goin' through jest what all tenderfeet do when they first strike these parts—try to wash gold dust out of mica. All the streams out here 're filled with them glist'ning particles, but recollect, boys, all what glitters ain't gold. That you've got's called 'fool's gold.'"
It was plain that Pod was disappointed, but the stranger gave him some good advice, and a large Colorado diamond for a keepsake, then strolled away, leaving two sadder but wiser men.
The road to Colorado Springs was a popular thoroughfare for bicyclists. Saturday afternoon, as we donks began the ascent of a long, steep, and winding incline, a din of voices and a whir of wheels suddenly sounded ahead, and a party of fifty or more young men and women in gala attire came speeding down toward us. As quickly as possible we donks turned out to the right. I think the bicyclists must have been English, for they steered to the left. In a minute "it was all off."
It happened that the leader of the wheel brigade saw us donks too late and tried to save himself by turning suddenly to his right. Result: Tire off and man off. Sequel: A wild rough-and-tumble conglomeration of sexes, as his followers mixed up with our party. Bicycles, donkeys, men, women, lunch baskets, packs, hats, petticoats and cameras were distributed in all directions. The cries and shrieks of the bruised and frightened together with the confusion of the wreckage so terrified us donks that as soon as we could pick ourselves up we reared on our haunches, and cavorted, and brayed, and so help me Balaam! it was the worst mix-up I was ever in.
When every man had assisted some one else's girl to her equilibrium, a council of war assembled to adjust grievances and repair machines; but the proceedings did not interest the Professor, for he hustled us donks up hill and out of sight as quickly as possible. The din of voices soon sounded in the distance like a swarm of yellow-jackets.
Colorado City was a gambling resort lying between Colorado Springs and Manitou. Our stop there was all too brief. While Pod and Coonskin were at feed we donks stole down-street to watch a "play." That was the time I regretted having eaten the five dollar bill back in Iowa, for three times in succession the roulette ball dropped on my colors, and by compounding the principal and interest each time I could have made a beautiful scoop which might have given us donks a high old time.
Thence onward Pike's Peak was the chief topic of discussion. To begin with, Pike's Peak is the largest mountain of its size in the world. Cats can't live ten minutes on the summit before going crazy, and dogs even lose their bark at the timber-line. I concurred with Pod that it would be a big feat to climb the Peak. On the other hand, Cheese and Skates demurred from our opinion. Skates positively declined to leave the stable, and Cheese backed her up by putting both fore feet in the manger. Damfino stood by Pod and me. She argued that when one has climbed to an elevation of 14,147 feet above sea-level he is likely to feel a blamed sight nearer heaven than he is ever apt to be again. The result was that Damfino and I alone accompanied the men on that adventuresome trip.
Everything went well until we struck the cog track in Engleman's Canyon. It was the first experience for us donks in "hitting the ties." I did not fancy the route at all. But Pod, having seen a boy ride a native burro up the track, resolved to do no less. The first half mile was not steep, and the men rode us donks; but when we caught up with a party of men and women making the ascent, an ambitious boy grabbed my tail and allowed me the privilege of dragging him a hundred yards before the Prof discovered him, and dismounted. How I thanked the boy for his thoughtfulness.
Damfino lagged behind. She had changed her mind. The consequence was, we donks were driven ahead, and Coonskin no sooner hit Damfino a whack with the butt of his six-shooter, then she began to pace so fast none of us could keep up with her. When we came to the steep 25 per cent. grade the men were winded; not so we donks. The men called to us, but we would not listen. They threw stones at us, and we quickened our gait. The men couldn't run up-grade to save their lives, whereas mountain climbing finds a donkey in his true element. "Ain't this fun!" exclaimed Damfino. "Never had such a picnic!" I added. Well, Pod walked half the way from New York and prided himself on walking, and Coonskin had won medals for sprinting: so it looked to us a huge joke, and we just brayed.
The next instant a locomotive bell sounded ahead, and I saw a train approaching from round a bend. We felt that we had the right of way, and were much put out when the train refused to stop. We would not get off the track; it would be contrary to the nature of first-class donkeys to do such a thing.
Say, what wonderfully powerful things steam engines are! We got it in our heads that we could stop the train, if we didn't push it off the track. You just ought to have seen us pitch headlong down the bank of the canyon into the foaming torrent. It was a mighty plunge we made, I can tell you. Before we rose to the surface the car stopped, and many of the passengers got off. The banks of the pool were so steep we couldn't climb out, and we had to swim and tread water to keep from drowning. Damfino brayed like a lunatic, I spouted like a geyser, and great excitement reigned among the tourists.
Evidently "nothing was doing" for our immediate relief. The engineer was loudly refreshing Pod's memory that he had no right on the railroad bed with his donkeys, and the female passengers gesticulated wildly and condoled with Damfino and me for the deep predicament we were in. One facetious fellow asked if we jackasses were Baptists, and the Professor told him he didn't know what denomination we formerly adhered to, but he believed that we were skeptics now.
Presently our masters began search for ropes and straps. Alas! all of them had been left behind. I was now through with coughing, but still weak and out of breath, while Damfino pumped logarithms of abuse at the cog train and exhorted me to keep swimming—advice entirely unnecessary. Finally the car steamed down to Manitou, and the sympathetic occupants called back that they would send aid.
Coonskin was first to come to his senses. Said he, "I can run, I'll run to the village for help;" and away he went to beat the cars. This expedient awoke the Prof.'s dormant mind to an idea, and he began to roll rocks into the Pool. At the same time he yelled something at us, but I couldn't wait to listen, for I ducked under water in the nick of time to dodge a half-ton boulder. It came within an inch of knocking all the bad character out of Damfino's head, and completely submerged us both. After that Pod was more careful, and instead of rolling one giant stone he sent two middle-weights down the bank in a manner to make us dive. I concluded Pod had gone daft.
"For Balaam's sake! what you trying to do up——" I brayed loudly, but scarcely finished when I came within an ace of "passing in my chips," as a gigantic pebble of the first water whizzed between our heads. Pod called back, "I'm lifting the bottom of the pool so you two can crawl out." I was astonished at such inventive faculty. A wonder we donks survived to tell it. Rolling stones may gather no moss, but they need a lot of looking after.
It seemed hours before Coonskin returned. By this time I had found a footing so I could rest with my head out of water.
"Why were you gone so long?" Pod asked, as he sat himself on a rail to rest his windpipe.
"Well," said the winded man, adjusting a lariat, "I hunted all over Manitou before I found the superintendent of the waterworks."
"But what on earth did you want of him?"
"I told him of the fix of our donks, and asked him to change the course of the stream till we could get them out of the pool."
"You idiot! And what did he say?"
"Oh, he was civil enough; said he, 'If you would like to have the mountain moved a little to one side I will have it put on jackscrews without delay."
Now it nettled me to listen to such nonsense while Damfino and I were refrigerating in ice water, and I brayed to the jester above: "Say there, you old fool, if you had only thought to have him pump the water out of the canyon above us you might have furnished a little dry humor that we would have appreciated."
The lariat was found to be of little service, but soon a couple of tourists arrived on the scene and assisted the two with their contract to raise the devil, as well as the bed of the torrent, and, at length, to extricate us water-soaked donks from our unhappy predicament. Then we were taken to the stable, rubbed down, and put to bed.
TOC
BY PYE POD.
It is the property of great men to rise to the height of great events.—Victor Hugo.
It is the property of great men to rise to the height of great events.—Victor Hugo.
The city of Colorado Springs possesses many attractions, and is growing in population and wealth. Here is a good-sized collection of pretty homes, built on wide and well-shaded streets, where reside beside the health hunter of independent means the mining king, the wealthy ranch owner, the Eastern capitalist, and the English tourist or speculator.
Friday morning we entered that picturesque Swisslike hamlet of Manitou with flying colors. The summer tourists were either lounging on the broad verandas of the hotels or assembling for burro trips to the Garden of the Gods and other famous retreats in the mountains.
Coonskin and I rode our favorite mounts to the principal hotels, Hiawatha Gardens and the iron and soda springs, at which several places I delivered lectures to the amused tourists and reaped a small harvest.
The Garden of the Gods is some distance from town, the popular drive being fourteen miles from start to finish. To ride our slow steeds there would mean a sacrifice of a day's time. So after much prospecting, I bargained with a garrulous but genial guide to drive us with his team to the Garden and Glen Eyre for the sum of $2.
What a gay old ride that was, in a cushion-seated carriage! I'll bet there wasn't one square inch of the seat that I didn't cover before I got back. Some way I couldn't seem to get in a comfortable position. The driver-guide was very accommodating and offered to go back to put a saddle on the seat for me to ride in, if I would but say the word.
The Garden of the Gods is a picturesque and grotesque natural park, the rock formations of red and white sandstone resembling roughly most every bird and beast and human character imaginable. In fact, one old pioneer whom we met insisted that the place is the original Garden of Eden, and that when Adam and Eve were caught eating the sour apple, God caused the earth to cough, whereupon it threw up mountains of mud and petrified many fine specimens of the menagerie. The mountaineer struck me as something so unique in his make-up and mental get-up that I bribed him to accompany me and explain those wonderful exhibits of the earth's first zoo. "Now there is Punch and Judy," he said; "most folks take them as sech."
"I suppose you make out they are the stone mummies of Adam and Eve?" I interrogated, showing effusive interest.
"Our first parents, sure's you are born," he returned with conviction. "And there yender is th' old washerwoman what done up Eve's laundry."
"But," I argued, "the Scripture says Eve didn't wear clothes, so she couldn't have had any washing."
The man coughed.—"Well, my young man," said he, "I've lived a good many year and in a heap of places and seen a lot of females come inter the world, or seen 'em soon after they did come, and I never yet saw one come in dressed, but yer kin bet yer last two-bit piece, from what I knows of women, it didn't take Eve more time than she needed to catch her breath to change her 'mother Eve' fer a 'mother Hubbard."
Then the pioneer pointed out the "Kissing Camels," the "Seal" and "Bear," and the "Baggage-room."
"Are there any petrified elephants in this menagerie?" I asked. "I'm fond of big exhibitions."
"N-n-no, they ain't no elifants here," said he with a jerk of the head. "Yer see when the mud was coughed up, they got so fast they left some of their trunks. That's them in the Baggage-room yender." And he ha-hahed over this poor joke.
As we passed successively the "Buffalo's head," the "old Scotchman," the "Porcupine," the "Ant Eater," the "old man's wine cellar" and the "Egyptian Sphinx" my guide enlightened us on geology, botany and mineralogy far beyond my powers of understanding, but not desiring to reveal my ignorance, I listened attentively, and now and then gasped: "Well, I never!" "I do declare!" "Would you believe it!" and "Gracious sakes alive!"
The "Gateway" to the famous park lies between two giant towering rocks three to four hundred feet in height, and further on the "Balancing Rock," a mammoth mass of sandstone, appears to be on the verge of a fall. Before leaving the park with its myriad curiosities, I called upon the "fat man" who runs a bar, restaurant, curiosity shop and miniature zoo. There lying in a box partially covered was a sculptured figure of a Digger Indian, which some enterprising mortal must have buried, unearthed, and sold to the hoodwinked man, for genuine petrified aboriginal meat.
Rainbow Falls, Grand Caverns, William's Canyon, Cave of the Winds and Cheyenne Mountain Drive all had their peculiar attractions. On Cheyenne Mountain is the original grave of Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Ramona."
It was about midnight when, with a small lunch in an improvised knapsack and revolvers in our belts, Coonskin and I began the ascent of Pike's Peak, the first attempt to do it having been so summarily defeated. By 1 a. m. we were well up Engleman's Canyon and with the aid of a lantern we surveyed the wild and steep cog track with about the same pleasure one feels in descending a deep mine with a lighted candle. Higher and higher as we rose toward the starlit heavens we found it more difficult to breathe and easier to freeze. At times the grade was so steep that we had to creep on our hands and knees to prevent sliding backward to Manitou. The so-called beautiful Lake Moraine looked disenchantingly black and icy, and the timber line, still far above us, seemed as elusive as a rainbow. We had to stop frequently to rest our knees and to breathe, for air up there was at a premium. Later on we built a fire of railroad ties and ate our lunch.
By four o'clock we overtook others striving to make the climb—men, women and small boys, whose chief aim in life evidently was to climb Pike's Peak. Some of them had started twelve hours before; others had been twenty-four hours climbing seven miles, and from the questions they put to us were doubtless under the impression there was an error in the guide books and that they had already tramped fifty miles from Manitou.
The sunrise effects from the Peak are marvelous, but Uncle Sol appeared to have as hard work in rising mornings as we travelers. The sunrise looked as uncertain as our arrival on the summit. Once, we tarried to speculate on our chances of reaching the opposite side of Manitou in time to witness the event, then resumed tramping and creeping, puffing and blowing and snorting, and venting our wrath on Mr. Pike for discovering the peak, and made the turn to find the sun as tardy as ever, with no apparent inclination to rise.
One old man we overtook told me he had been "nigh on to twenty year" climbing Pike's Peak, and hadn't climbed it yet. That gave me courage. I wouldn't back out. It looked as if there were only one more turn to make, when, about half way around, three shivering maidens sitting on a rock asked me most pathetically if I had seen any kindling wood about. My heart was touched! I replied that I had not, but would try to find some.
I built a fire, and the girls were real nice to me, and insisted that I share their cheese sandwiches.
On arriving at the summit I was just in time to see the most dazzlingly beautiful sunrise to be witnessed on earth.
Arriving on the board walk in front of the Summit House I saw Coonskin thawing in the sun, fast asleep. Inside the house a young man lay on a sofa in a swoon, for want of air. There is a golden opportunity for some enterprising man to transport barrels of air to an airtight building on the Peak, and sell it to patrons for a dollar a pint. A hundred gallons could have been sold that morning—I would have bought fifty myself.
Wandering aimlessly and weakly, as if from that tired feeling, about the house and rocky-looking grounds, were several dozen mountain-climbers, shaking hands with themselves for having seen the sunrise, or examining the crater of the extinct volcano, or discussing the mysterious ingredients of their coffee cups in the only restaurant, which small concoctions cost fifteen cents each. I haven't said what was in the cups; it was supposed to be coffee. I bought a cup, and forgetting that I had drunk it, bought another, and still I didn't make out what it was. Then I purchased another, and after I had finished four cups began to have a suspicion of coffee. It cost me sixty cents.
After resting an hour we started back to Manitou. It was two p. m. before the foot-sore Pod and his lung-sore valet managed to get to their hotel. In less than an hour both became rational, and agreed that the first of them to mention Pike's Peak should instantly be deprived of breath.
To those who boast of their ability to grow fat on beautiful scenery I heartily commend the trail through Ute Pass, Divide, Cripple Creek, South Park, Leadville and Aspen to Glenwood Springs, crossing Western and Independence Passes. First proceeding up Ute Canyon along the banks of the turbulent stream and in the shadow of the towering cliffs, often in view and in hearing of the trains on the Colorado Midland, we passed the summer retreats of Cascade and Green Mountain Falls, at which places the tourists flocked from hotels, cottages and tents to talk with Pod and Mac A'Rony.
Only a brief stop was made at Divide to enable me to replenish my larder; then we hustled on toward the famous mining camp.
Early every afternoon a thunder shower drenched our party. Once or twice the thunder in advance warned us so we could pitch tent and crawl under shelter. Thus our travels in that region were impeded.
Three miles beyond Gillette we climbed to Altman, said to be the highest incorporated town in the United States, some 11,300 feet above the sea. It rests literally on the summit and hangs down over the mountain sides secure enough whenever and wherever there is a prospect hole with sufficient gold in it to serve the miners a foothold and check their sliding further. The high altitude of the district makes it especially undesirable for women, causing nervous troubles. Even the male population are more or less excitable, and when prospectors think they have made a strike some of them run about like lunatics.
From Altman we took a tortuous trail, threading Goldfield, Independence, Victor and Anaconda. The mountains about are honeycombed with prospect holes—or graves they might be properly called, for many of them contain buried hopes. From a distance they look like prairie-dog towns, but occasional shaft-houses and gallows-frames rise here and there to give character to the mining region, while several railroad and electric car lines wind about the hills and gulches.
Many of the cabins in these towns are built of logs; the streets look to have been surveyed by cows rather than engineers. As a rule, there is no symmetry to the thoroughfares—up hill and down hill, crooking and winding, crossing and converging, in a manner to puzzle a resident of a year. The situation of most of the habitations seems to have been governed by the location of the claim of each house owner. This great camp got its name from two circumstances occurring when the locality was known for no other virtue than a grazing place for cattle. One day on the banks of the creek that trickled through the present site of Cripple Creek a man broke his leg, and the following day a cowboy was thrown from his bronco and had his arm broken. Some one, seeing both accidents, said: "I reckon we'd better call this place Cripple Creek." So the noted camp was christened.
TOC
BY MAC A'RONY.
You do ill to teach the child such words; he teaches him to kick, and to hack, which they'll do fast enough of themselves; and to call horum;—fye upon you!—Merry Wives of Windsor.
You do ill to teach the child such words; he teaches him to kick, and to hack, which they'll do fast enough of themselves; and to call horum;—fye upon you!—Merry Wives of Windsor.
Frequently since crossing the Mississippi Pod had received letters from proud parents informing him that they had named their latest boy after him. At that time in Cripple Creek, several boys ranging from a day to six weeks old, whose destinies were thought to be promising, were afflicted with my master's ponderous name.
A little green-eyed Irish girl, five days old, was named Pythagorina Podina Mulgarry. The happy father called personally on Pod and asked him to act as godfather at the baptismal service, Sunday afternoon. The impressive ceremony took place at the cabin of Miss Pythagorina, as the aged grandmother wished to witness it. Pod said he was somewhat embarrassed about attending, since he had forgotten almost all his Latin, but he arranged with one of the pall bearers to give him nudges and kicks when it was expected of him to make a response, and so he got through fairly well—better than the kid did. He said the babe was an unruly child, and kicked so frantically when the priest took her in his arms that two flatirons were tied to its feet to keep them down. It was simply nervousness, because the high altitude affected the child's nerves. So when the priest was handed the tiny thing in swaddling clothes and held it over the barrel that served as the font, the poor girl was frightened and squirmed, and suddenly slipped out of the priest's arms into the barrel and sank out of sight. There was great excitement and surprise because the flatirons didn't float, and the undertaker, or what you call 'em, overturned the barrel of water and set everybody afloat, drenching the sponsors and guests.
Pod said the scene was without a parallel; he was soaked to his equator; the half-christened, half-drowned Pythagorina Podina was picked up from the flood with a tablespoon, and the ceremony finished; then she was rolled on the barrel to get all the water out of her, and put to bed with hot flatirons at her feet to prevent croup and mumps. Then the wake broke up. I don't believe the child understood a word that the priest said; Pod didn't.
That night he got up a fine supper, and invited some old friends. He bought a big porterhouse steak, thick and tender, and personally broiled it on his patent folding stove. Just when everything was on the table and the guests were finding stones and tin plates to sit on, Don, not having had a thing to eat for an hour, coolly pulled the hot steak off the platter and dropped it on the ground. Pod didn't say anything, though, but just forked it on to the platter and scraped off some dry grass and a sliver and a bug, and carved it up and generously put it on the ladies' plates. The ladies looked at the dog, and then at Pod, not knowing which to thank, then feeling sensitive about accepting the best part of the steak, insisted upon Pod's having one of their pieces and Coonskin the other; and both men being kind and gallant accepted the compliment, and all fell to eating. But the guests didn't eat much. They said they had just had dinner. You could see plainly from their appetites that they were telling the truth. After supper Don feasted on the tougher parts of the steak, and we donks were fed the scraps of potatoes and bread and tin tomato and peach cans. When the banquet was over the guests went home.
Pod devoted Monday morning to business, and took in a good stock of supplies, and after lunch we set out on the trail to Florisant, about twenty miles away. About six o'clock we went into camp on the margin of a famous petrified forest. Pod objected at first, because of the scarcity of fire-wood.
"Lots of petrified wood chips lying around," I remarked; "and they'll last. Ordinary wood burns up too fast."
"Bright idea!" exclaimed Pod. And Coonskin went to work gathering petrified wood for the supper fire. "The only trouble will be in starting the fire," said Pod. "Just as soon as it's once going, it ought to burn smoothly enough—might pour coal oil on the chips. What do you say, Coonskin?"
Coonskin's opinion didn't benefit Pod much. His hard-wood fire wasn't very satisfactory, but with some dry brush the men got the meal under way. Next morning we visited the noted petrified stump, measuring upwards of forty-five feet in circumference. Several saws were imbedded in it, for many futile attempts had been made to take off some slices for the Denver Exposition. It has been estimated by various ornithologists, botanists and entomologists that the stump is millions of years old. I think they were guessing at it, for I couldn't see the rings, and even if I had seen them with a telescope a fellow couldn't live long enough to count them.
We journeyed until ten at night, stopping at Florisant only a few minutes to buy a crate of peaches. Several times I had a suspicion that we had been misdirected. When we came to the end of a narrow wood-road I was sure of it. We went into camp, and before breakfast a timberman called on us.
"You kin trail through the timber to Pemberton," said he to Pod, "and then cut through to Fairplay, er you kin go back the way ye came."
"What do you say?" Pod inquired, turning to Coonskin.
"I think best to go through the woods," said the valet.
So we were headed for the timber. Our tramp through the forest I cannot soon forget. Up and down the rocky heights, through thickets of quaking asp and pine, tangled roots and fallen trees, we climbed and panted and coughed and brayed for some four miles, when we stopped to rest and realized we were lost. Coonskin said he was an experienced woodman, and would blaze the trees so we would get out again. Wonderful! the amount of learning he had gleaned from dime novels. He lagged behind to do the blazing; and pretty soon I smelt smoke. The Professor snuffed.
"Smells as if the woods were on fire somewhere," hinted Pod.
"Look behind you; they are!" I exclaimed. And Pod caught that erudite valet-back-woodsman in the act of setting a tree on fire with oil and matches. Fortunately for us the wind wasn't blowing strong, but we had to change our course some, and hustle faster, for the blazing trail chased us. Coonskin learned a new lesson, and turned down the corner of the page so he'd recollect it. After Pod had explained the meaning of the word "blaze" in this case, the fellow was more put out than the fire.
At length we struck a trail which led to a couple of cabins in the canyon. A board sign informed us it was simply Turkey Creek. I couldn't see any turkeys, but there was good pasturage around. The hot trip through the timber made us all hungry.
It was three o'clock when we donks were picketed and allowed to graze. Then Coonskin went fishing. He said he had seen some trout in the stream; by supper time he had caught a nice mess. Pod said he would fry the fish, and went at it so enthusiastically that he forgot to put the bag of corn meal back in its place. After the meal was over, he began to look around for the bag. It was nowhere to be found; I had eaten the corn meal and bag. It was comical how those two men puzzled their brains about that missing commodity. When Coonskin detected some meal stamped in the ground, Pod pointed at me and said, "That's the thief, there."
Next morning, Coonskin was the first to return from fishing, and looked much excited. When Pod returned he told him he had seen huge bear tracks; he was going bear-hunting. Pod laughed at him.
"Now let me tell you," said the boy, "we aren't likely to get any big game on this trip if we are looking and gunning for it. That was my experience in the woods of Wisconsin. The men at the saw-mill said we should see bear in this forest, but where are they? It's my opinion if we loiter around this here canyon a day without guns we will see a bear pretty soon. A silvertip would be a boon to you, Prof; its skin would fetch fifty dollars or more. Let's look for bear."
"What would you do if you saw a bear?" Pod asked.
"Well, now leave that to me," said Coonskin. "In the first place, it would be worth a hairbreadth escape to see one wild; I've only seen bears in circuses, or traveling chained to Italians; in the second place, I can run. I've plenty of medals for sprinting, but if I saw a real bear I could beat all records."
Pod looked at me and I looked at Pod; I hadn't anything to say on the subject; it didn't interest me as much as it did Coonskin. Pod went fishing that afternoon with a gun, and took the whole arsenal along with him, including the axe.
Somewhere about five o'clock Pod came into camp with a good mess of trout. After cleaning the fish, he took off his guns, and laid down on the grass, and wondered if that crazy valet had run across any more bear tracks. He wasn't there long when, suddenly, I heard yells issuing from the canyon down stream round the bend. The shouting sounded nearer every second, and I soon distinguished Coonskin's voice. Pod got up from the ground excitedly.
"Coonskin's in trouble, plain enough," said Pod aloud to himself, "I must run to his aid." So he started on a trot down stream to the bend, and then quickly turned, falling all over himself, and ran toward the cabins faster than I ever saw him run before or since. And immediately Coonskin came flying into view with the biggest bear at his heels I ever want to see.
That sight paralyzed me; I couldn't get on to my feet for a minute or two, then I broke the rope and kited up the canyon a hundred yards, where behind a tree I waited to see the interesting finish.
TOC
BY PYE POD.
Who dared touch the wild bear's skinYe slumbered on while life was in?—Scott.
Who dared touch the wild bear's skinYe slumbered on while life was in?
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin
Ye slumbered on while life was in?
How fast a man can run when he knows he's got to win a race! There was one time in my life when "can't" was an obsolete word in my vocabulary. It was when that silvertip granted Coonskin's chief desire in the field of adventure.
"Shoot him! Shoot him!" cried the angler, as he fairly flew past me, headed for the first cabin.
But I had neither time nor gun to shoot; when I heard bruin at my heels I switched off to the left and ran three times around the second cabin before I realized the bear had taken a stronger fancy to my comrade. It seems he had chased Coonskin around the cabin several times, until the man dived in the door and head first out of the window. Bruin followed in, but remained. He smelled the fragrant peaches.
Coonskin, however, under the impression that bruin was still after him, ran twice around the cabin before he climbed a tree.
Meanwhile, I, having climbed a tree close to the cabin, descended to the cabin roof. I knew silvertips couldn't climb trees, so I felt safe. The sudden shuffle of my feet on the gravel-covered roof disturbed the peace of the present incumbent, and out he came, rose on his haunches and looked about to see what was up. I was immovable. Back into the cabin went brother Bruin, and began to break up things, generally.
Then followed a few moments of dreadful silence. Not a sound issued from Coonskin's tree; he was probably trying to recover his breath and reason. Night soon fell upon us; it gets dark early in the canyons, and the mercury falls fast. I was chilly, for I shivered frightfully. The blankets and guns were on the ground just outside the cabin.
"Let's flip a coin to see which of us goes down for a gun," suggested Coonskin from his tree. But I did not take him seriously.
"Don't you wish you had taken the fish-line off your rod?" he added; "you could fish up a blanket and keep from freezing."
"By jingo!" I exclaimed, "I have my line, and I'll try it."
At once I fashioned a fish-pole out of a pine bough, and after much patience secured the only blanket within reach. Then winding it around myself, I lay as snug as possible, but couldn't go to sleep. That was the longest night I ever experienced. How long we should be kept off the earth, was an unpleasant speculation. Once I called to Coonskin not to go to sleep and tumble out of the tree, but he answered that he was so stuck up with pitch he couldn't fall.
Our hopes were low, when, suddenly, about seven o'clock, from the canyon below appeared a man in the rough garb of a mountaineer, with a rifle across his shoulder and a hunting knife in his belt. As he was about to pass I hailed him.
The hunter stopped, looked my way, approached to within a few feet of the cabin, and said a cheery "Good morning." I responded in a mood still more cheery.
"What you doin' up there—smoking? Had breakfast, I reckon."
"No, haven't cooked yet this morning," I returned.
"Glad t' hear that—haven' et yet myself. Got 'nough to go round?" he asked, shifting a cud of tobacco from one side to the other.
"Don't know about that," I said. "You'll have to ask the boss—he's inside."
As the rugged looking huntsman approached the cabin door, I held my breath, but I rose to my feet when I actually saw the hunter's hat rise on his uplifted hair as he looked into the cabin door. With the quickness and coolness that come to one habituated to solitary life in the wilds, he put his Sharp's rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired. There was a second report, followed by a tremendous thud, and the sound of something within struggling for life and vengeance. The hunter had no sooner fired than he dodged, and stood ready for a second charge; but that was not needed.
"Come down," he said to me with a grim smile. "I'm boss here now."
I slid off the roof, and Coonskin, to the man's surprise, appeared from his lofty perch; then we introduced ourselves. While I thanked the hunter for his kind offices and welcomed him to breakfast, Coonskin began to prepare the meal. Our guest explained that he was a bee-hunter.
"When the bear meets the bee-hunter searchin' for a bee tree, brother Bruin says, 'Ahem! Excuse me, but I'm workin' this 'ere side of the trail, you just take t'other side.' Then the bee-hunter says: 'Pardon, my friend, Mr. Bear, but I'm workin' both sides of this particular trail, just throw up your paws.'"
The bee-hunter chuckled over the practical joke played on him, and said as it came from a tenderfoot he'd take it in good part; but if it had been a backwoodsman that played such a game he'd settle with the bear and the man in the same fashion. His words and manner startled me.
The bee-hunter rose from the log and drawing his knife, dropped on his knee, and began to skin the bear as if he thought he owned it.
"You needn't bother about skinning it for us," I said, "we're quite satisfied that you killed it."
The man eyed me. "This bear belongs to me, if ye want to know," he said.
"How is it your bear?" Coonskin asked, when he came to announce breakfast. "You shot it, but in our cabin."
"That don't make no difference, and I don't intend arguing the question," came the positive retort; "I say he's mine—who says he hain't?"
I suddenly felt a bee in my bonnet. "The 'ayes' have it," I said.
That stopped the debate, but I could see blood in Coonskin's eye when he ushered us to breakfast. Before we had finished, my nervy valet asked our guest if he played poker. "Ya-a-as, some," the hunter drawled. "If there's money in it, I'll jine ye in a game."
larger"Through thickets, tangled roots and fallen trees."
"Through thickets, tangled roots and fallen trees."
What could Coonskin have in mind, to challenge this rough mountaineer to a game of cards? He had often boasted of his skill at poker. Now he cleared the table and brought forth the cards he had carried way from Iowa, and motioning the bee-hunter to a seat, the two cut for the deal. From my seat, beside Coonskin, I discovered a little round mirror hanging on the wall behind the hunter opposite; it was the one my valet had purchased in Denver. Where he sat he could see the hunter's hand reflected in the glass. I felt if he were detected in this underhand game it would go ill with both of us; so put both revolvers in my belt, and kept mum. That was an interesting game.
"Lend me some change," said Coonskin. I threw him my bag of silver. Then he added: "Pod, you count out the matches here for chips and act as banker." So I was drawn into the game. The first few hands were very ordinary, and caused no excitement. But finally the bee-hunter, arched his eyebrows; I knew he must have a fine hand or a bluff, in store for his tenderfoot opponent. He bet heavily, but Coonskin raised the ante every time. Suddenly what had been in Coonskin's mind all the time was revealed. "Lend me fifty dollars," said he to me, and to the bee-hunter added: "I'll lay this roll of bills against the bear skin, and call you."
"I'll go ye," said the bee-hunter. When both men lay down their hands, I had taken down the mirror and hid it in my pocket.
"Beaten by four jacks! I be d——d!" the outraged mountaineer exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table and regarding his four ten-spots with grim disfavor. Coonskin grinned from ear to ear as he swept in the money. Said he, "Mac A'Rony, Cheese, Damfino and Skates—I swear by them every time. Whenever I get that hand I'm billed to win."
"So yer travelin' on them jacks," remarked the defeated partner.
"No, not exactly," Coonskin returned as he rose from his seat. "The jacks I'm traveling with are out doors; these are their tin-types."
The bee-hunter looked chagrined enough, but he took the thing as a matter of course, apparently never dreaming that he had been actually buncoed by a boy tenderfoot. Presently he rose, and shouldering his rifle, made his departure without thanking us for our hospitality. I hoped sincerely he would find his bee tree, and harvest a rich reward. I told Coonskin he was a brick. He accepted his winnings modestly, and fell to finishing the task of skinning the bear. It was a fine skin. After salting it, and wrapping it in gunnysacks, I packed our luggage while Coonskin saddled the donkeys.
Shortly after noon we reached the road that was already familiar to us, and five hours later arrived in Florisant.
It was sundown when we went into camp. I had lost three days, but I had been fully compensated by the pleasures of angling and bear-hunting.
Next day we were off for Leadville in good season. My animals seemed to be in fine traveling form; by sunset we arrived in South Park. It was Saturday. There we enjoyed the hospitality of a deserted, floorless cabin, where, sheltered from the wind, we could eat without swallowing an inordinate amount of sand. Close by was a fine spring, so we resolved to remain until Sunday afternoon. We were awakened at dawn by a bevy of magpies perched on the tent; Coonskin was so annoyed that he crept to the door and shot the chief disturber, in spite of the bad luck promised him by a popular legend.
South Park is one of three great preserves in Colorado. There once roamed buffalo, deer, elk, antelope and wolves, while on the mountains bordering the valley were quantities of mountain sheep. A few deer, sheep and bear are said to be still found in that section. Coyotes are heard nightly, and the evening we trailed out of the Park a traveler with a prairie schooner said he had seen two gray wolves.
Our afternoon trip through the Park was a painful one. Mosquitoes attacked us from every quarter, and it was mosquito netting, pennyroyal and kerosene alone that saved our lives. When we consider that Mosquito Pass, the highest pass of the Rockies, 13,700 feet, was named after a mosquito we may derive some idea of the size of the insect.
It was late in the night, when, after brief stops at two sheep ranches run by Mexicans, and another at a small settlement, we entered the canyon. It required two days of hard climbing to cross Western Pass. The snow-capped peaks of the range looked grand and beautiful, and the noisy streams in the canyons leading from the summit on both sides were stocked with trout.
The morning we trailed out of the canyon into the Arkansas Valley was clear and lovely. After traveling some distance up the valley, the smoke of the Leadville smelters burst into view, and a mile beyond the city itself could be seen nestling against the towering mountains.
This famous mining camp gave us royal welcome. The report in the papers that Pye Pod would lecture that evening drew an enthusiastic throng, applauding and crowding closely about the donkeys, all eager for the chromos that Coonskin sold while I talked.
Next morning we crossed the valley and pitched camp on the banks of Twin Lake, two lovely sheets of water at the mouth of the canyon leading to Independence Pass.
This pass is one of the loftiest of the Continental Divide—that snowy range from which the rivers of Western America flow east or west through undisputed domains. Trailing up, the ascent gradually became very precipitous and the trail a severe trial. Over this pass, climbed the overland stages and freighting wagons with their four and eight-horse teams. It was, in ante-railroad days, a popular route, and the now deserted cabins of Independence once composed a lively mining camp. Although the trail was kept in good order, yet wagons and teams frequently toppled over the narrow trail, and mules, horses and passengers met their death on the rocks below.
We men walked to relieve our animals and arrived at the summit at sundown. Looking backward, for six or seven miles the view surpassed in grandeur any scene of the kind I had ever viewed. The stream appeared to be spun from liquid fleece from the mountain sides, and tumbled and foamed over the rocks and fallen trees in its bed until it looked like a strand of wool in a hundred snarls.
While resting, a heavy snow squall descended, and drove us on across the pass into the western canyon for shelter. This canyon surpassed in grandeur and size the other. Knowing our sure-footed steeds would keep the trail much better than we, Coonskin and I got in the saddle, but more than once I nearly went over Mac's head.
When we had proceeded only a mile below the summit, the trail became particularly narrow and rocky. To the right, protruded from the bank a great boulder, and to the left sloped a deep and sheer precipice, to which only the roots and stumps of trees could cling. Here my valet dismounted; I should have done likewise. Mac considered a moment whether or not to descend further, then made a sudden dive, shying from the declivity and striking the rock on our right, and was jarred off his feet, falling with me over the edge of the trail.
Down and over we rolled toward the yawning gulf some forty feet before we caught on a stump and stopped. That was a dreadful moment for me. For a time I lay still, not daring to excite Mac.
Carefully I extricated myself from my perilous position, and held my donkey's head down till Coonskin got the ropes from Damfino's pack and came to my relief. In time the other three donkeys pulled Mac A'Rony up on to the trail.
We pitched camp and Sunday morning continued down the trail, which soon presented difficulties still more discouraging. The numerous springs had necessitated corduroy roads often hundreds of feet in extent. But these had been so long in general disuse that the logs had rotted away in places.
Frequently Coonskin and I dismounted and repaired the corduroy breaches, with fallen trees, thereby losing much time. By dark my outfit had made but three miles. In the darkness of evening we came to the empty cabins of old Independence, whose single inhabitant called to us from his doorway as we passed.
At last we arrived at an old-time stage-house. It was now temporarily tenanted by fishermen from Aspen, who asked us to spend the night with them. I accepted; soon my animals were feeding on the fresh grass bordering a spring nearby, and Coonskin and I seated at the hot repast our hosts had quickly provided.
The house was large, with a high roof and a dirt floor. A great fire blazed in the center, lending comfort to the cozy quarters. The anglers had spread their blankets in one end of the shack, and we pitched our tent in the other and soon fell to sleep, while the fishermen likely continued to swap "lies" till a late hour. The last remarks I heard almost made me cry.
"I don't think it would do for me to go to hell, pa," said the lad of the party.
"Why?" queried the sire.
"Oh," said the boy, "the light would hurt my eyes so, I couldn't sleep."
Getting an early morning start, we trailed down and out of the long canyon into Roaring Fork Valley, and at four o'clock arrived in Aspen, a famous silver camp of early days. A crowd soon gathered, and I had no sooner announced a street lecture for that evening than the news began to spread all over town. Here supplies must be bought, some business transacted under my advertising contract, and Mac shod. For the first time that jackass kicked the blacksmith. When I reprimanded him, he claimed the man had pounded a nail in his hoof almost to the knee, and added, for the smith's benefit, "Shoe an ass with ass's shoes, but set them with horse sense." Which I thought sound philosophy.
At the appointed hour and place for my lecture the street was choked with an eager audience. Coonskin had been instructed to have the donkey there, saddled and packed, by eight sharp. They failed to appear. So impetuous and enthusiastic were the crowding, cheering citizens that I mounted a block and began to talk. Suddenly, I was interrupted by a shout, "The donkeys are coming," and at once the crowd became so hilarious that I had to cease speaking till my outfit arrived. "Mac A'Rony!—Mac A'Rony!—Damfino!—Cheese!" echoed and re-echoed, as a number of boys ran to meet the donks. It occurred to me that Coonskin might soon have his hands full, so I hastened to his side. But, ere I arrived my handsome Colt's revolver was stolen from its holster, buckled to Mac's saddle horn. As Coonskin was riding Cheese and trailing the others he could not guard against the theft, but I blamed him for not heeding my instructions always to leave the guns at my headquarters. It was the only article lost by theft on my journey. The four marshals on duty hoped to recover the revolver, and forward it to me, but I never received it.
When I had finished my lecture, Judge S—— passed his hat and handed me a liberal collection. And as my outfit trailed out of town toward Roaring Fork, a young man wheeled up with us and gave me a silver nugget scarf pin. In Aspen, as in Leadville, I disposed of many photos.
It was a fine evening. I was promised a smooth trail through to Glenwood Springs. We were to travel ten miles that night, and hence would need to sleep late next day. So I advised Coonskin to set the alarm clock, just purchased, for ten a. m.
TOC
BY MAC A'RONY.