from school we clambered over the long freight-train, laden with
sleepers, that stood waiting for us on a siding. Our orders were
perfectly clear. We were to distribute ourselves through the train and,
at a given signal, to unlade the sleepers as fast as we could, throwing
them along the road-bed well free of the line. Each man was to remember,
moreover, that, at the end of his own section, he was to leave the
train.
I found myself in a box-car with three other navvies, all strangers to
me. Sleepers lay piled to the roof from end to end of the floor, with
only a passage across the middle wide enough for us to begin the work. A
blue-eyed young Swede and I had just agreed to be partners when the
Superintendent passed in his way along the train, noting the number of
men in each car.
In a few moments we were off, and we had not gone far before the
prearranged signal came. Then we bent to the work with a will. It was a
break in the regular routine and we took it as a lark. Two men attacked
one side of the passage and the Swede and I the other. Soon it was a
race between us to see which could unload the faster.
The train moved slowly, discharging sleepers that piled themselves in
grotesque confusion along the sides of the embankment, while above the
noise of the cars, rose the voices of the men as they shouted excitedly
in the unwonted rivalry.
Before I realized that we had gone half so far, I caught sight of the
Buda station. Our car was nearly empty, and as nearly empty at our end
as at the other, the Swede and I thought, but our fellow-navvies claimed
a victory when, at the end of the section, I jumped to the ground with
much care to avoid the flying sleepers. Osborn was there, and soon the
other members of the gang gathered, and then we returned to the usual
work until six o’clock.
For two weeks or more I remained at work on this section, then I knew
that I must be going; for the autumn was at hand, and I aimed to cross
the Rockies and reach the milder climate of the Southwest by the
beginning of winter. But the actual parting with the gang presented the
usual embarrassments. I had become used to the men, and they to me, and
we worked together harmoniously and were on terms of easiest
friendliness. Besides, no one had appeared who would take my place, and
there were many sleepers to be laid.
I always stipulated with my employers at the beginning of an engagement
that I wished to be free to go when I pleased, as they were free to
discharge me when they wished, but this rarely smoothed the way of
going, for they lost sight of the agreement as they grew accustomed to
me as a hand.
When I told Osborn one evening that I must be gone in a day or two, his
eyes took on a look of perplexity that did not relieve my embarrassment,
and he began to plead the pressure of the work and the difficulty of
getting section-hands until I felt like a deserter. But there was no
help for it, and early one September morning, after reluctant good-byes
to the family and the men, I set off down the line with my wages in one
pocket and in another a luncheon that the boss’s mother put up for me.
When the sun was setting that evening, I had entered a region where the
cornfields were fewer, where the cattle country had begun, and the
alkali shone white in the soil, and the bones of dead cattle lay
bleaching on the plain.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“A BURRO-PUNCHER”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“A BURRO-PUNCHER”
Mike Price was a prospector by nature; his prospecting through the
summer and autumn of 1892 in the Wagon Wheel Gap country of southwestern
Colorado was a mere incident in a long career. Phœnix, Ariz., was his
head-quarters, and he would fain return there for the Indian summer of
its winter climate; for he hated snow and the hard cold of the Rocky
Mountain camps, where, as he said, a man must hibernate until spring.
But Phœnix was the best part of 600 miles away across a thinly settled
frontier. Burros and blankets and food for the journey were to be had
only for ready money, and Price had not “struck it rich”; indeed, he had
not struck it at all. One after another the parts of his camping outfit
had gone into a pawnbroker’s shop at Creede, in the progress of a
luckless season, until the late autumn found him without burro or
blanket or bacon, and bereft even of the “gun” (a six-shooter) which
General —— had given him in recognition of his services as a scout.
It was late November when I met him, and Price was making a precarious
living at odd jobs for civil engineers. One of these was my friend
Hamilton, who had known Price for years and who proved himself a friend
in need to both of us, for he brought us together and proposed the
journey which took us to Phœnix, and which gave me six weeks’ experience
as a “burro-puncher.”
You could trust Hamilton to find a way out. There is scarcely a phase of
frontier life that he did not know from personal experience, and he saw
at a glance that Price’s position and my own would exactly complement
each other in furthering a plan which was common to us both. Price
wanted to reach Phœnix, and so did I; he knew the way but was without
the means of travel, while I, knowing nothing of the country, yet had
some store of savings.
Wages were high at Creede. The miners were getting $3, and I, as an
unskilled laborer, working with a gang that was cutting a road down
Bachelor Mountain from the New York Chance Mine to Creede, was paid
$2.50 a day. Our board and lodging cost us $7 a week, but they were
worth it, and, even at that rate, there remained a considerable margin
for possible saving.
Hamilton knew my plans; he was one of the few whom I had told, in the
course of my wandering, of the object of the expedition. We had been
spending an evening with a company of kindred Bohemians at the house of
a mine superintendent, and were returning together to his quarters in
the quiet of two o’clock in the morning through a world white with the
first snow of winter and dazzling under a full moon.
I had money enough to take me to Phœnix by rail, and it seemed the
height of folly to go in any other way, so I began to explain why I
wished to walk and why I had already walked most of the way from the
Atlantic. Hamilton listened patiently, but without interest, I thought,
until abruptly he turned upon me with approval, immeasurably beyond my
desert, yet showing so sympathetic an insight into the possible service
of such work, that I saw again, as by a flash, the rich human quality
that had already endeared the man.
“And so you worked with the road gang on Bachelor Mountain to get enough
to grub stake you to Phœnix?” he said, and he laughed aloud. Then he
swore—deeply, resonantly, and from the heart.
Price was sent for on the next day, and, in the afternoon, he turned up
in Hamilton’s office, a dark, bearded, keen-eyed Irishman, slender and
wiry, and all alert at the prospect of getting back to “God’s country,”
which in his phrase meant Arizona. Soon, not merely Hamilton and I, but
our friends the barrister and the editor and the grave mine
superintendent were involved in preparation for the trip. We accompanied
Price to the pawnbroker’s shop, where he identified his belongings, and
I redeemed them. Then we all set about selecting additional blankets and
a fresh store of food.
Our pack animals could not have carried their loads, had we taken all
that was pressed upon us for the journey. Price borrowed a shot-gun from
the private arsenal that was put at our disposal, and I a six-shooter,
and we gladly accepted gifts of tobacco until our pockets were bursting
with plenty.
Weird as it was, our little caravan was but the typical prospector’s
outfit as we moved in single file through the winding street of the
mining camp, an object of interest only to the four friends who bade us
good-by with many slaps on the back and with affectionate oaths. Price
was mounted on his Indian pony and I on Sacramento, a burro of uncommon
size, while our effects were packed on the backs of two other burros,
Beecher and California by name, with two of California’s foals trotting
abreast as a running accompaniment to the show.
Past the shops and saloons and dance-halls and hotels we wound our way
on among the frail shanties at the outskirts of the camp, until we
struck the wagon trail that led southward through a ranching country in
the direction of the pass over the mountain to Durango. Snow lay lightly
on the ground; vast tracts, however, had been swept clear by the wind,
so that ours was an unobstructed course, except where we had to plough
through occasional drifts, which our animals did with ease, tossing the
feathery flakes until they flashed again in the clear sunlight of a
frosty morning. The burros were at their best, keeping the trail at a
steady pace that never hinted at the habit of wandering. Price was
high-spirited at the thought of Phœnix, and, between snatches of song,
he regaled me with the glories of the Indian summer which we should find
across the range. I could well share his light-heartedness. As far as
Creede I had walked alone, picking the way with ease, but, between
Creede and Phœnix, there lay a stretch of the fast-fading frontier which
I longed to cross on foot, yet knew that I could not without a guide.
And here, as by miracle, one had appeared in the person of Price, who
knew the land and them that dwelt therein, and who was more than guide
in being a philosopher and friend. The keen air quickened our blood, as
we breathed deep of its rarefied purity and felt the mild warmth of the
winter sun like the glow of rising spirits. The mountain-peaks rose
white and still above the dark ruling of the timber line, yet radiant in
the light, and serene in a peace that passeth knowledge; and the head
waters of the Rio Grande swept past us in streams that were dark against
the snow, but ablaze where they reflected the sun.
It was long past noon before I thought of stopping, and then I found
that there were to be no mid-day stops on this expedition, for the days
were so short that camp had to be made between four and five in the
afternoon, and, as it was difficult to get started in the morning much
before eight o’clock, we could give at the best but little more than
eight hours in the day to travel.
For some time that afternoon we had been in the shadow of a mountain to
the west, and the light was fading fast, when, as we rose upon a knoll
above the stream whose bed we were ascending, Price saw that it was a
good camping-ground, and the caravan came to a halt. Wood was abundant
about us, so that water was soon boiling, and slices cut from a frozen
shoulder of beef were presently frying in the saucepan, while the tea
drew to a fearful strength at the fire’s edge. After supper and a smoke,
we made ready our bed. An old piece of canvas, some seven feet by
fourteen, was first spread upon level ground; then we arranged upon half
of it all the gunny-sacks that we had brought as cushions for the
pack-saddles. These formed a mattress, over which we spread our
blankets, drawing up finally the unused half of the canvas as a top
covering. Going to bed consisted simply of taking off our boots and
folding our coats for pillows, then disappearing with all speed under
the blankets, with the canvas drawn well over our heads to keep out the
bitter night cold of that altitude in late November. Our animals browsed
near the camp, the bells about their necks tinkling as they moved, until
they, too, found shelter and settled down to rest.
When I wakened it was from deepest sleep, and I looked out from under
cover for some sign of day, but there was none. The stars were shining
undimmed, with the effect of nearness which brought back vividly an
illusion of childhood. Nothing in their position gave me a hint of the
time, but Price, on waking, saw at a glance that the dawn was near.
Scarcely was the fire lit and water put on to boil before the dark bulks
of the mountains to the east were clear cut against a brightening sky.
Breakfast over and the dishes washed, we had a smoke and, having fed the
animals from a little store of grain, we saddled and packed them for the
day’s march.
Nothing in the previous day’s experience suggested the rigor of this
afternoon’s progress. All went prosperously in the morning, for we were
still following the wagon trail, and the burros kept it as by instinct.
Only the snow was deepening, which was a reminder of the warnings we
received in Creede that we were attempting the pass dangerously late in
the year. What with snow and the loss of leaves, the “look” of the
region had so far changed since Price passed that way in spring that,
with small wonder, he could not find the lead of the foot-trail that
crosses the Divide. Again and again we struck in to the left only to
discover presently that we were following a false lead, until Price,
impatient of further dallying, boldly led the way in an ascent of a
trackless mountain whose farther side, he knew, would disclose the lost
trail.
A long, steep climb by a well-trodden way is difficult at the best for
pack animals, but we were now in a forest with the course obstructed by
undergrowth and the trunks of fallen trees, and the uncertain footing
covered with treacherous snow. The burros took it splendidly from the
first, straining their muscles in a toilsome climb that was doubly hard
because of its obstacles. But as the hours passed and the way grew more
difficult, their strength began to fail. Then came long resting spells,
followed by spurts of frantic climbing. Again and again we seemed to be
nearing the top, only to find the crest of a ridge with another summit
towering far beyond. Presently the burros were falling from sheer
fatigue. With a few yards of upward struggle, down they would sink
exhausted, and, after letting them rest, Price and I had our hands full
in dragging them to their feet again.
It was nearing sunset when we gained the top, and, once there, all our
troubles vanished. We passed from the cover of the wood out upon a
treeless slope, swept clear of snow and covered by the past summer’s
growth of grass, brown and dry and excellent fodder. A stream flowed
through the natural meadow, and on a ledge above it, as plain as day,
was the winding trail making off in the direction of the Divide. We
gratefully camped there that night, while our tired beasts gorged
themselves with grass.
Whatever the difficulties of crossing were to be, we were clearly not to
be hampered by foul weather. The night was as still and cold as the last
had been, and the morning again was cloudless. We were up by starlight
as before, and the camp-fire was sending volleys of glowing sparks into
the surrounding darkness when the signs of dawn appeared. I went to the
brook for water and was back just in time to see the sunrise from the
camp. We were in a narrow valley that stretched southwestward in an
upward trend toward the summit of the range. From its northeastern
opening we could see far over a confused mass of mountains whose
outlines grew clearer in the return of day. With infinite majesty the
light streamers flung themselves across the sky, paling the bright
stars; and, when a distant snow-peak caught the first clear ray, all the
others seemed to lift their heads in an ecstasy of praise and welcome.
In another moment the eastern wall of our valley was fringed by a
tracery of fire, where level beams shone through the trees which stood
out against the sky. And last, upon us in the depth of the valley, the
sun rose, prodigal of his splendor and of his gifts of light and life.
I had left Price squatting near the fire with his face to the east as he
cut slices of bacon into a saucepan. On my return from the brook I found
him still sitting there, but grown oblivious to bacon. His forearms were
resting on his knees, while loosely in one hand he held a knife and a
piece of bacon in the other. From under an old felt hat, long, black,
matted hair fell upon his neck and mingled with a dark, unkempt beard.
His face, blackened by the smoke of the camp-fire, was lifted to the
eastern sky, and his eyes were on the sunrise. Such a look, transfixed
with reverence and wonder, seemed to link him with some early epoch of
the race, when the sense of power and beauty awoke in man; and as he
drew himself erect without lifting his eyes from the scene before him,
“It’s not strange,” he remarked, “that men have worshipped the sun.”
The snow grew deeper with every mile of the march that morning. We were
nearing the Divide, and one evidence of it was the piercing wind that
blew down the gorge. Not since the morning of the first day out had
either of us ridden; for the animals had as much as they could do to
carry themselves and their packs, and now we found that we must help
them by opening a path through the snow. It lay a foot deep before us,
then two feet and more as we mounted the Divide, so that Price and I
were soon alternating in the work of breaking a way. One of us would
plunge through until fagged out, then the other would take his place in
treading down the drift, and so we forged ahead, a few yards at a time,
wet to the skin with melting snow and cut to the bone by the wind.
I do not know how far we travelled that day; it could not have been many
miles, and I do not care to think of possible consequences, had we been
overtaken by a storm, instead of having the fairest possible winter
weather. But we put in more than eight hours of continuous work and were
repaid in the late afternoon by reaching camping-ground on the western
side of the Divide, almost as good as that which we found for the night
before.
The next day’s, Tuesday’s, march was one that dwells delightfully in
memory—not for any element of excitement, but for the simple joy of it.
All day we descended by a trail that wound through cañon after cañon,
crossing and recrossing the streams whose waters were flowing toward the
Pacific, as those of the day before were to find a final outlet in the
Atlantic. It was cold, but it seemed like spring in contrast with the
day before, for the sun shone bright, and birds were in the trees, and
here and there the snow had melted, giving to the soil the suggestion of
returning life.
The burros plainly shared the feeling of relief in reaching a more
passable region, and the art of burro-punching began, consequently, to
disclose its difficulties. From one side and then the other of the trail
they would break away in all directions, exploring the surrounding
country, never with an air of mischief, but always with a sober, dogged
perversity that was the more exasperating because it wore a mask of
reason. Once back into the trail, they might keep it faultlessly for
miles on end, and then, from no apparent cause, begin once more to
wander. They were most difficult to manage at the fords. Generally they
scattered to the four winds at the first approach to water, and when we
had corralled them again and forced them down to the brink, they would
stand calmly, planted ankle-deep in the stream, resolutely determined
not to move. It was then that Price gave vent to real profanity, and I
am bound to own that it was effective. When beating and prodding and the
milder invective failed to urge the burros forward, Price would stand
back, pale with rage, and begin to swear, calling upon all his gods and
blasting the reputations of his beasts unto the third and fourth
generation of their ancestors. By some subtle perception they seemed to
understand that this meant business, and slowly at first, but presently,
as though they rather enjoyed the water, they waded through and started
down the trail beyond.
We camped that night in a narrow cañon whose level bed was well grown
with trees and walled by scarped cliffs, which rose sheer above it.
Price said that it formed a miniature Yosemite, and certainly it made
good camping-ground; for with plenty of wood and water, it was well
protected from the wind, and we slept there in great comfort. But our
fare was growing monotonous. We soon exhausted the supply of beef and
had since been living upon bacon and bread, so that we heartily welcomed
the sight of a ranchman’s cabin near the end of the next day’s march,
for there we purchased a peck of potatoes and thus enlarged our bill of
fare to bacon and “spuds” and bread and gravy.
Thanksgiving-day was celebrated by faring sumptuously in the evening and
sleeping under cover. And it was the more delightful celebration for
being wholly unpremeditated. There was no prospect through the day of
anything but the usual march and camp in the open at night. We were
plainly in a more populous region, for we had struck a wagon trail
again, and repeatedly, in the morning, we met farm wagons laden with
solemn families in Sunday dress. As the afternoon wore on we grew
hungrier for thinking of Thanksgiving dinners. At dusk we were passing a
ranch upon which the hay presses had just ceased working for the day. A
little farther down the road we overtook two men who were about to enter
a wooden building, which proved to be a deserted school-house. Price
hailed them and they turned, standing in the open door. Practised as he
was in the amenities of the frontier, it took him no time to strike up
an acquaintance, and soon we were bade welcome to share the school-house
as a camping-place.
Our hosts were a young American frontiersman and his “partner,” an
Indian, who together had a contract for pressing hay on the neighboring
ranch, and who were living meanwhile in this deserted building. Having
admitted us, they completed their welcome by doing everything in their
power for our comfort. They arranged with the owner to pasture our
animals on the ranch for the night, and showed us where to find wood for
a fire and where on the floor to spread our bed. And when the evening
meal was ready, they proposed that we should club together, giving us of
their fresh meat and roasted Indian corn and steaming hot bread in
exchange for our “spuds” and bacon. But we had some chance of making
return, for they had no tobacco to compare with ours, and far into the
night we sat talking, over pipes fragrant of good weed.
Price and I were making progress in acquaintance, and every day I had
fresh cause for self-congratulation at my extraordinary luck in having
fallen in with so good a guide. Of excellent Irish family, Price was not
without education and a taste for letters, although he had chosen,
almost as a boy, the career of an adventurer on the frontier. And now at
middle life, having ranged the Southwest as few men have done, and
having seen all phases of its life and shared most of them, he was
looking forward to further casual living, perfectly content so long as
he had a camping outfit and could wander as he pleased over the face of
nature. That some day he would “strike it rich” he never doubted—and may
his faith come true. Meanwhile he was getting a good deal out of life.
Nature in her milder moods was a constant solace and a joy to him. In
long marches through golden Indian summer days, he sang and spouted
verses of his own, and told me veritable Ulysses’s tales of men and
their strange ways. The few books which he had read he had made his own,
for his memory was retentive, and he never forgot, apparently, a face or
a name, so that his progress through the country was like a walk about
his own neighborhood.
With the instinctive, gentlemanlike reserve of the Western frontiersman,
he never questioned me about myself; he was far more interested in what
knowledge I might have gathered, which he could add to his own. Oddly
enough, it was the little reading that I had done in philosophy that
seemed to attract him most. Many a night when it was mild enough to
sleep with our heads uncovered we lay side by side, “overarched by
gorgeous night,” gazing into the starry firmament, and I would tell him
what I could of theories of the universe from Thales to Herbert Spencer,
feeling all the while the tension of his mind as he reached out eagerly
for these guesses at the mystery of things.
It happened that I had been reading “Coningsby,” at Creede, and Prince
slipped the copy into his pocket as we left the camp. He devoured it by
our camp-fires at night. The story held him, but most of all he was
spellbound by its literary charm, and he added a quaint reason for his
liking in the remark:
“You know,” he said to me, “Lord Beaconsfield was always square with the
Irish.”