CHAPTER XXI.DEVELOPMENT OF CREEDE—SAW A CITY SPRING UP ALMOST IN A DAY—AN HUNDRED GAMBLERS CAME THERE, TOO.
DEVELOPMENT OF CREEDE—SAW A CITY SPRING UP ALMOST IN A DAY—AN HUNDRED GAMBLERS CAME THERE, TOO.
NOW let the weary prospector sit down and rest. His dream has been realized; his prophecy fulfilled.
The opening of the Amethyst vein called for the extension of the Denver & Rio Grande Railway Company’s track from Wagon Wheel Gap, a distance of ten miles.
About this time, President Moffat and the General Manager got into an entanglement with the directory and both resigned. Mr. George Coppell, chairman of the board, came out from New York and took charge of the property.
Mr. Moffat and others interested,urged the management to extend the rails to the new camp. Among those interested in the extension was Senator Wolcott, counsel for the company; but it is as difficult for a New York capitalist to appreciate the importance of a silver camp as it is for him to appreciate the value of a silver dollar, so Mr. Coppell refused to build the line.
Mr. Moffat then put up thirty-six thousand dollars to build the extension, agreeing to let the railroad company repay him in freight.
Soon after this Mr. E. T. Jeffrey was elected president and general manager of the road. Probably no man in America could have taken up the tools laid down by Moffat and Smith and continue the good work begun by them, with so little friction as did the present president of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad Company. To fill the placesvacated by these popular officials was no light task. The grand stand was packed and the voters held the bleachers, when President Jeffrey went to the bat.
Colorado said “Play ball,” and in the first inning he won the respect of the other players and the applause of the people. He has been successful because he deserved success.
Three months after the completion of the line to Creede, each train brought to the camp from two hundred to three hundred people, all the side-tracks were blocked with freight and a ceaseless stream of silver was flowing into the treasury of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad Company. The lucky prospector built a cozy cabin in the new camp and saw a city spring up almost in a day. Just where the trains pulled in, you might see him sitting by thecottage door, smoking a cigar, while the little old dog who had just finished a remarkably good breakfast, trotted stiff-legged up and down the porch and wondered why they didn’t go out any more and hunt in the hills.
A thousand burdened burros filledThe narrow, winding, wriggling trail.An hundred settlers came to buildEach day new houses in the vale.An hundred gamblers came to feedOn these same settlers—this was Creede.Slanting Annie, Gambler JoeAnd Robert Ford; Sapolio—Or Soapy Smith, as he was known—Ran games peculiarly their own;And everything was open wideAnd men drank absinth on the side.And now the Faro bank is closed,And Mr. Faro’s gone awayTo seek new fields—it is supposed—More verdant fields. The gamblers sayThe man who worked the shell and ballHas gone back to the Capital.The winter winds blow bleak and chill,The quaking, quivering aspen wavesAbout the summit of the hill;Above the unrecorded gravesWhere halt, abandoned burros feedAnd coyotes call—and this is Creede.Lone graves! whose head-boards bear no name,Whose silent owners lived like brutesAnd died as doggedly, but game,—And most of them died in their boots.We mind among the unwrit namesThe man who murdered Jesse James.We saw him murdered—saw him fall,And saw his mad assassin gloatAbove him. Heard his moans and all,And saw the shot holes in his throat.And men moved on and gave no heedTo life or death—and this is Creede.Slanting Annie, Gambler JoeAnd Missouri Bob are sleeping there;But slippery, sly Sapolio,Who seems to shun the Golden Stair,Has turned his time to loftier tricks—He’s doing Denver politics.
A thousand burdened burros filledThe narrow, winding, wriggling trail.An hundred settlers came to buildEach day new houses in the vale.An hundred gamblers came to feedOn these same settlers—this was Creede.Slanting Annie, Gambler JoeAnd Robert Ford; Sapolio—Or Soapy Smith, as he was known—Ran games peculiarly their own;And everything was open wideAnd men drank absinth on the side.And now the Faro bank is closed,And Mr. Faro’s gone awayTo seek new fields—it is supposed—More verdant fields. The gamblers sayThe man who worked the shell and ballHas gone back to the Capital.The winter winds blow bleak and chill,The quaking, quivering aspen wavesAbout the summit of the hill;Above the unrecorded gravesWhere halt, abandoned burros feedAnd coyotes call—and this is Creede.Lone graves! whose head-boards bear no name,Whose silent owners lived like brutesAnd died as doggedly, but game,—And most of them died in their boots.We mind among the unwrit namesThe man who murdered Jesse James.We saw him murdered—saw him fall,And saw his mad assassin gloatAbove him. Heard his moans and all,And saw the shot holes in his throat.And men moved on and gave no heedTo life or death—and this is Creede.Slanting Annie, Gambler JoeAnd Missouri Bob are sleeping there;But slippery, sly Sapolio,Who seems to shun the Golden Stair,Has turned his time to loftier tricks—He’s doing Denver politics.
A thousand burdened burros filledThe narrow, winding, wriggling trail.An hundred settlers came to buildEach day new houses in the vale.An hundred gamblers came to feedOn these same settlers—this was Creede.
A thousand burdened burros filled
The narrow, winding, wriggling trail.
An hundred settlers came to build
Each day new houses in the vale.
An hundred gamblers came to feed
On these same settlers—this was Creede.
Slanting Annie, Gambler JoeAnd Robert Ford; Sapolio—Or Soapy Smith, as he was known—Ran games peculiarly their own;And everything was open wideAnd men drank absinth on the side.
Slanting Annie, Gambler Joe
And Robert Ford; Sapolio—
Or Soapy Smith, as he was known—
Ran games peculiarly their own;
And everything was open wide
And men drank absinth on the side.
And now the Faro bank is closed,And Mr. Faro’s gone awayTo seek new fields—it is supposed—More verdant fields. The gamblers sayThe man who worked the shell and ballHas gone back to the Capital.
And now the Faro bank is closed,
And Mr. Faro’s gone away
To seek new fields—it is supposed—
More verdant fields. The gamblers say
The man who worked the shell and ball
Has gone back to the Capital.
The winter winds blow bleak and chill,The quaking, quivering aspen wavesAbout the summit of the hill;Above the unrecorded gravesWhere halt, abandoned burros feedAnd coyotes call—and this is Creede.
The winter winds blow bleak and chill,
The quaking, quivering aspen waves
About the summit of the hill;
Above the unrecorded graves
Where halt, abandoned burros feed
And coyotes call—and this is Creede.
Lone graves! whose head-boards bear no name,Whose silent owners lived like brutesAnd died as doggedly, but game,—And most of them died in their boots.We mind among the unwrit namesThe man who murdered Jesse James.
Lone graves! whose head-boards bear no name,
Whose silent owners lived like brutes
And died as doggedly, but game,—
And most of them died in their boots.
We mind among the unwrit names
The man who murdered Jesse James.
We saw him murdered—saw him fall,And saw his mad assassin gloatAbove him. Heard his moans and all,And saw the shot holes in his throat.And men moved on and gave no heedTo life or death—and this is Creede.
We saw him murdered—saw him fall,
And saw his mad assassin gloat
Above him. Heard his moans and all,
And saw the shot holes in his throat.
And men moved on and gave no heed
To life or death—and this is Creede.
Slanting Annie, Gambler JoeAnd Missouri Bob are sleeping there;But slippery, sly Sapolio,Who seems to shun the Golden Stair,Has turned his time to loftier tricks—He’s doing Denver politics.
Slanting Annie, Gambler Joe
And Missouri Bob are sleeping there;
But slippery, sly Sapolio,
Who seems to shun the Golden Stair,
Has turned his time to loftier tricks—
He’s doing Denver politics.