PREFACE
Oh, that glorious West! The magic and the memory of it! How it thrilled us in our boyhood, how it held us in our youth, how the dream of it filled our young pulsing manhood, till there was none other! “O, to be in England now that April’s there!” once sang Browning, but the song in the heart of young America, forty years ago and more, was the great glorious, boundless West! I crossed the bare Kansas and Colorado plains in the month of March, 1880,—when the Great West was still a vision, yet largely a dream; when scarce small clumps of buffalo could still be seen from the car windows. I shook hands at the bar of the St. James Hotel in Denver with Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack in full buckskin regalia,—still to be seen and known in their habit as they lived.
Yet it was the dawning of a new day for the West and all men knew it. The old order passeth, and so it was here; a new West was coming in, and the great pioneer heroes of an earlier day shook hands with the derby-hatted tenderfoot from the East and tilted glasses in friendly companionship. But the old West—the great, the never-to-be-forgotten epic of our newer civilization—still lingered; and happy, yes, a hero of sorts was he of the East who still sniffed the footprints. Railroads were still largely a dream; the Union Pacific had cut the boundless wastes of the great desert and made travel to California an actuality; but a second great transcontinental iron path was still largely a possibility. The footprints of the pioneers were everywhere; echoes of the pathfinder were yet in the air; gold and silver were being found every day in the wilderness of the Rockies; new camps—reachableonly by the primitive stagecoach, whose final departure in an older realm had been magniloquently signed over by old Sir Walter—were springing up overnight; Leadville had a population of thirty thousand and not a score of streets named; Buena Vista, at eleven thousand feet above sea level, was a dream of the gods! Away to the South were Silver Cliff and Rosita, with their hitherto uncombed rocks pouring out fortunes. Ouray was an acknowledged bonanza; and into the Gunnison country poured a steady stream of prairie-wagons over mountain trails that the Indian himself did not know. The plains held unlimited resources in the golden imagination of the pioneer! Was there ever such a dream as his—of sheep and cattle by the thousands—such flocks as Abraham never dreamed of; and away to the South, boundless, unconceived-of possibilities, an absolute Eldorado! Such was the great, the Golden West—to make no concrete mention of California—when the compiler of these pages first felt the urge and the surge toward it. Horace Greeley’s pæan was in the air: “Go West, young man.” And most of us did; and whether fortune or its reverse came, there is not a man of us in whom the red blood flows still that can ever forget that splendid scene. If to the survivor, as to the more or less belated traveler, some echo of it lives in these pages, he has done his work faithfully.
This, then, is an outdoor book. The breath of the prairie, the mountain, the desert, the lake, the sea blows through its pages. It describes for the most part an outdoor life,—a life that in its main aspects and features is the most stirring and eventful chapter in the history of any new civilization. All the elements of romance were crowded into the making of our great West; not a single one is lacking. It was the last great scene in the history of world-pioneering, and contains episodes, like the discovery of gold in California, that are epic. The tale in its infinite variety has been told by many writers; some ofwhom have passed into oblivion, but have left us living pages; others of them belong to our best literary tradition; a few are among our immortals. It is impossible in a volume of this size to give more than a vivid glance at the scope and importance of this vast literature. The compiler has endeavored to convey an impression of the general scene inspired by the men who were themselves its living actors. “All of which I saw, and part of which I was” has been his motto in gathering his material. He has therefore some hope that he has presented, at least in degree, a living picture of a great drama, now vanished forever, and which undoubtedly can never be paralleled in the annals of world civilization.
Joseph Lewis French