UP THE PLATTE TO DENVER (_Concluded_).
The Platte Valley itself is a great furrow or groove in the heart of
the Plains proper, extending substantially due west from the Missouri
to the Rocky Mountains. On the line of our tier of northern cities,
and so in the track of northern ideas across the continent, it is
as if nature intended it for a great natural highway, and already
it had come to its fulfilment. Its early selection by our army of
emigrants to Colorado, Utah, California, etc., was because of its
supplying the three great desiderata of wood, water and grass, better
than any other route; and its easy grades, as well as accumulating
trade and travel, made it the predestined pathway of the Pacific
Railroad. It varies in breadth from five to ten miles, and is bounded
on either side by abrupt bluffs two or three hundred feet high,
whence outstretch the Plains proper. Extending from the foot of these
bluffs, for a mile or more usually, is a level plateau or "bench"
(in Plains parlance), composed of sand and gravel, and worthless for
agricultural purposes from want of moisture. To be sure, during the
spring a meagre herbage is sustained here, but long before summer
ends everything green parches and withers up. Then come the bottoms
proper, on either side of the river, of rich loam and clay, which
produce grass in goodly quantities all summer, and we saw no reason
why they should not also grow most cereals and vegetables. Perhaps
it is too far north for Indian corn; but wheat, barley, oats and
rye ought to flourish there, except in localities where the soil
may be too strongly impregnated with alkali or soda. Their natural
adaptation, however, is for grass, and I apprehend we shall soon
have our flocks and herds, by the acre, feeding all up and down by
the Platte. When you reach the North Platte the valley of course
subdivides, and you continue on up the valley of the South Platte
to Denver. The fertile and cultivable bottoms, of course, narrow
as you advance; nevertheless, they maintain a considerable breadth
nearly everywhere, despite encroaching bluffs, and around and beyond
Denver are made highly productive by occasional irrigation as needed.
Utilize the unfailing waters of the Platte by windmills or otherwise,
as they do their streams in Italy, Egypt and China, and the Platte
valley throughout its length will yet become a garden.
The Platte itself to the eye is a broad and lusty stream, and in
places, as near Fort McPherson, expands into a sea of islands,
most refreshing to behold after days of dusty travel. But while in
volume sufficient for a first-class river, its banks are so shifting
and its sand-bars so numerous and variable, that it has always
proved practically unnavigable, notwithstanding our western rivers
swarm with stern-wheelers, many of which it is said only require a
respectable ditch or half decent dew. Unbridged and without ferries,
we found it crossed only at a few well-defined fords, and even these
were so cursed by quicksands, that trains in crossing stood in great
danger of bringing up at Jeddo or Pekin. Its waters were considered
healthy and sweet, notwithstanding a trace of alkali, and with all
its shortcomings, it seemed nevertheless a perfect God-send to that
particular region. Its banks and islands were usually fringed with
cottonwoods and poplars, and furnished almost the only supply of
fuel to passing emigrants and travellers. The settled residents
there, however, the station-keepers and ranchmen, depended more on
the stunted cedars, that abounded generally in all the ravines and
cañons, with which the side-bluffs of the valley are more or less
seamed. Here also they procured the most of their lumber, and from
here supplied thousands of ties for the Union Pacific Railroad. We
were surprised to find these cedars so abundant in the cañons, where
nothing tree-like was visible until you entered. Then we found the
whole bottom and sides frequently lined with them to the top; but
there they abruptly ceased, as if close shaven by the winds, which in
certain months sweep over the Plains mercilessly.
In both wood and lumber, however, we found the Platte valley sadly
lacking, and the whole Plains country generally. Good peat had been
found at Julesburg, and bituminous coal was reported near Fort Morgan;
but our posts were depending for both fuel and lumber mainly on the
Platte and its side cañons. At Fort Sedgwick, near Julesburg, they had
been hauling wood nearly a hundred miles, at a cost to the government
of over a hundred dollars per cord, there being none nearer or cheaper.
Lumber cost one hundred and seventeen dollars per thousand, and
shingles fifteen dollars per thousand, and were held cheap at that.
The year before, lumber had cost two hundred and five dollars per
thousand, and shingles in proportion. Grain (corn and oats) was wagoned
from the Missouri, and cost the government, put down at Sedgwick,
about seven dollars per bushel. Hay was cut in the vicinity, and cost
thirty-four dollars per ton. Recently they had made a contract with
shrewd operators in Denver, for lumber at ninety dollars per thousand,
and wood at forty-six dollars per cord, both to come from the Rocky
Mountains, over two hundred miles away; but the contractors availed
themselves of cheap freights by eastward-bound wagon-trains, otherwise
returning empty. At Julesburg, we were told, there was not a tree even
for fifty miles; formerly there had been a scrubby cottonwood, on the
south bank of the Platte there--a lone star in solitary splendor--which
was regularly shown to tourists as one of its lions. But this had
recently fallen down and floated away, and now Julesburg mourned its
loss as "the last of the Mohicans." There was some talk of erecting a
monument to its memory; but even this would have to be of "adobe," as
stone was equally a rarity there.
Down in the valley proper, the field of vision is limited by the side
bluffs, and you see but comparatively little of the country generally.
But ascend the bluffs on either side, and the vast ocean of the Plains
stretches boundlessly before you--not flat, but billowy with swells and
ridges, an illimitable plateau, with only here and there a solitary
"butte," sharply defined against the clear sky. In spring this whole
vast extent is a wilderness of verdure and flowers; but the summer
skies, untempered by rain, as elsewhere said, scorch and burn the
ground to cinders, and long before autumn comes all vegetation there
practically perishes. Even the hardy buffalo-grass becomes brown and
tinder-like, and the only grazing there is in the cañons and valleys.
Nevertheless our Plains have hitherto sustained buffalo by the million,
and do it still, although these shaggy monsters have of late mostly
disappeared from the Platte region. We did not see one in our entire
trip to Denver; but a friend, who came through a month or so later,
over the Smoky Hill route, where there was less travel, reported
buffalo there yet by the horizon full--the whole country being
substantially black with them. The short and sweet buffalo-grass is
indigenous through all this region, and is said to be nutritious, even
when dried up, the year round. What a magnificent range for stock these
great Plains will yet afford, when the country becomes more thickly
settled up! Much of this region is marked on the old maps as the "Great
American Desert;" but from all we saw and heard I doubt not, as a
whole, it will yet become the great stock-raising and dairy region of
the Republic, whence we shall export beef and mutton, leather and wool,
in exchange for cloth and steel.[3]
We had several fine rides with brother-officers among the cañons and
bluffs while stopping over to inspect our military posts _en route_,
and a grand gallop one bright September morning over the Plains and
far away after antelope. In the cañons and along the bluffs we started
plenty of jack-rabbits; but the antelope were shy and apparently
always on the run, so much so we could never get within shot of them.
We formed a long line across the country, and as we swept forward
started two or three small herds; but they were all too fleet for Uncle
Sam's coursers. Subsequently we halted, and lying down tried the old
hunter's trick of enticing them with a handkerchief on a ramrod, with
our rifles ready to blaze away as they drew near; but they were too
cunning to be caught by any such rascally flag-of-truce arrangement,
and it seemed a shame to attempt it. The ride itself, however, was a
great satisfaction, full of excitement, exhilaration, enjoyment. The
sky was a perfect sapphire, without cloud or haze. The clear atmosphere
braced one's nerves like wine, and revealed distant objects with a
pre-Raphaelite distinctness. A pyramid-like "butte," off to the
southwest, seemed near at hand, though more than twenty miles away. The
ground was baked hard, with a thin covering of dry-grass, except in the
occasional buffalo-wallows; and altogether our horses seemed to enjoy
the gallop quite as much as we did ourselves. There was just a spice
of danger in the ride, too, as Indians were reported prowling about,
but none appeared. We left the Platte with its bluffs and cañons behind
us, and out into the boundless Plains we rode, on and on, and only
drew rein when we discovered that we had lost our reckoning, and were
without a compass. The person charged with providing this had forgotten
it, and suddenly we found ourselves at sea, without guide or headland.
Fortunately we had the well-worn buffalo-trails, that there run almost
due north and south--the old paths over which they formerly went to and
from the Platte for water--and following up one of these, after an hour
or two, we found ourselves in sight of the river again. These "trails"
are no wider than ordinary cow-paths, but they are worn deep into the
soil, and show by their great number and depth what countless herds of
buffalo must have roamed here in other days. They are a sure guide up
and down the bluffs, many of which are so precipitous that safe ascent
or descent elsewhere seems impossible. But the buffalo, by a wise
instinct, seems to have hit just the right point, and deserves credit
for such skillful engineering.
The population of the Platte Valley was yet mostly _in futuro_. The
little _in esse_ was grouped sparsely around the several Military
posts--Forts Kearney, McPherson, Sedgwick and Morgan--the intervening
stage-stations, and at Julesburg. The largest hamlet, perhaps five
hundred inhabitants or so, was near Fort Kearney, having grown up on
the outskirts of that post, and bearing the same name. Julesburg
consisted of a blacksmith-shop, a grocery, a billiard-saloon, and a
half-dozen houses all of adobe. It was on the South Platte, at the
point of crossing for the Utah and Montana travel, which here bore
away northwest for Bridger's Pass, and so did a considerable business
already in canned-fruits and tangle-foot whiskey. A year afterwards,
it was the terminus for awhile of the Union Pacific Railroad, went up
speedily to two or three thousand inhabitants, and figured largely in
eastern journals. But, presently, with the ongoing of the railroad,
its importance ceased, and its inhabitants,
"Folded their tents like the Arabs,
And silently stole away."
The stage-stations usually had a ranch or two adjoining, though
these grew more infrequent, as we got farther west. These were
only rude huts of sod or adobe, with dirt-roofs, divided into
two apartments--one for sleeping purposes, and the other for a
cross-roads grocery. The stock on hand usually consisted largely
of tobacco, canned-fruits and vegetables, and the worst varieties
of "needle-gun" whiskey, warranted to kill a mile away. Hay and
wood were also kept on hand, for sale to passing trains, and many
ranchmen managed thus to pick up considerable money in the course
of the year. Generally two men occupied a ranch thus together,
though sometimes squaws were found serving as "brevet"-wives. Much
of their time was spent, especially at night, in playing "poker,"
"old-sledge," "seven-up," etc. for the want of something else to do;
and a newspaper, a Congressional speech, or even a Pub. Doc., was
always welcome. Farther west, the stage-stations and ranch-huts were
built more substantially, and often were regularly bastioned and
loop-holed for a siege. One of the most notable of these was Fort
Wicked, about half-way between Julesburg and Denver. It was built of
sods and adobe, with a thick wall of the same on three sides, and was
really an arrow and bullet-proof block-house. A year or so before,
it had been attacked by a party of Cheyennes and Arrapahoes; but the
owner and his men showed fight--killed several of the red-skins, and
put the rest to flight--whereupon some one christened the place "Fort
Wicked," and the name stuck.
[Illustration: PLAINS INDIANS.]
Wagon-trains going west or returning east, we met frequently, but
not to the extent we anticipated. They usually consisted of from
ten to twenty wagons each, with from eight to twelve pairs of mules
or yokes of oxen to each wagon. Going up from the "River," as the
Missouri was always called, these trains being loaded all had their
full complement of wagon-masters, teamsters, cooks, etc. But,
returning empty, several wagons were often coupled together--the
surplus employees stopping over in the mines. By day, these trains
stretched their huge length along, the great white-sheeted wagons
or "prairie-schooners" carrying each from ten to twelve thousand
pounds; but, at night, their wagons were formed into a "corral,"
with the animals inside to prevent the Indians stampeding them, and
the picturesque effect of such encampments was always pleasing.
Even here on the Plains, about the last place we would suppose, the
inherent aristocracy of human nature cropped out distinctly. The
lords of the lash _par excellence_ were the stage-drivers. The next
most important, the horse or mule teamsters; and the lowest, the
"bull-drivers." The horse or mule teams made from twelve to fifteen
miles per day; the ox-trains eight to ten. For real vagabondage,
pure and simple, life with one of these trains seemed hard to
beat. An Arab of the desert, or a Gaucho of the pampas, could ask
for nothing more nomadic. And if anybody is sick of Sybaris, and
anxious to get away from all trace of civilization, here is the place
for him. It seemed to be going down to the bed-rock in the social
scale, and afforded a splendid opportunity to study first principles.
A school-friend of mine, a man of fine culture, tried it formerly,
and his experiences were racy and rare. Subsequently, as miner, land
agent, speculator, and lawyer, at Pike's Peak and Denver, he made two
or three fortunes and lost them; then emigrated to San Francisco,
where he made another as army contractor; and then wisely forsook the
fickle goddess, and settled in New York.
Rumors of impending troubles with the Indians thickened as we advanced.
The settlers and stage-people said the Indians appeared but little on
the road, which was a sure sign that a storm was brewing. Further they
said the tribes had had a grand pow-wow recently on the Smoky Hill
and the Republican, in which they had agreed to bury the hatchet and
make common cause against the pale-faces. Subsequently, later in the
autumn, they did attack some stations on the Smoky Hill route, and a
stage or two on the Platte route; but we reached Denver unmolested.
East of Julesburg, at Baker's ranch, we passed an encampment of Sioux,
perhaps two or three hundred, papooses and all, in cone-shaped wigwams,
evidently the original of our army "Sibley." While changing horses, we
strolled into several of their wigwams, and found them full of braves,
squat upon their hams, intently engaged in playing cards. In Indian
pantomime, they warmly invited us to participate, but we were obliged
to decline the distinguished honor. The squaws were mostly at work on
moccasins or blankets, and their tawny little papooses (stark naked,
except a breech-cloth) were either practising with bows and arrows, or
"lying around loose." The entire party seemed utterly poverty-stricken,
even to their ponies and dogs, and, generally, about as wretched as
human beings could well be. Their main provisions seemed to be rusty
army-rations, which had recently been issued to them at one of our
neighboring posts, and without these they would have been practically
destitute. Dirty, squalid, indecent, and half-starving, they seemed
but little removed above the brute creation, and gave a terrible shock
to all preconceived ideas about the "Noble Red Man," if we had any.
They were the first real savages--pure and simple--we had met, and our
poetry and romance, born of Cooper and Longfellow, shivered at the
spectacle. Some miles farther on, we encountered two young "bucks,"
gaily attired in blankets, beads, feathers, etc., jogging along on
their ponies to the camp at Baker's. They had given a big scare to a
poor German we overtook--a blacksmith, travelling alone from station to
station, in a light two-mule buggy, to shoe the Company's horses. The
appearance of our coach, however, made him feel his scalp more secure,
and falling in behind he followed us up for miles, singing at the top
of his voice "Annie, dear Annie of the vale!" Our stage was full inside
and out, and we were all well-armed--in fact, fairly bristled with
repeating-rifles and revolvers--and had we been attacked no doubt would
have given a good account of ourselves. Our experiences up to Denver,
however, inclined us to be somewhat skeptical on the Indian question,
and our subsequent observations did not greatly change this. The whole
region, indeed, seemed to be over-sensitive on the subject. The air
was everywhere thick with rumors, that one by one disappeared as we
advanced, and we hardly knew which to wonder at the more--the veracity
or credulity of the Plains. In fact, that prince of romancers, Baron
Munchausen, seemed to preside over the country, or the people to be his
lineal descendants, almost everywhere.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] See Appendix.