AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
The Plains after awhile became somewhat of a bore, they are so vast
and outstretched, and you long for a change, something to break the
monotony. To us this came one evening, just beyond Fort Morgan, when
a hundred and fifty miles away, just peeping above the horizon, we
descried the cone-like summit of Long's Peak, all pink and rosy in the
sunset. "Driver, isn't that the Mountains?" said some one. "You bet!"
was his answer, of course. "'Tisn't often you can see the Peak this
fur; but it is mighty clar to-day!" The night soon afterwards shut down
upon us, during which we bowled rapidly along from station to station,
and the next morning were early awake. Soon the sun rose bright and
clear; but the air was keen, with a stiff breeze eastward in our teeth.
We were down in a wide depression of the Plains; but presently we rose
up out of it, and as we struck the summit of the "divide," lo, the
Rocky Mountains were before us in all their grandeur and sublimity.
To the north rose Long's Peak, fourteen thousand feet above the sea,
heaven-kissing, but with his night-cap still on; to the south, was
Pike's Peak, eleven thousand feet above the sea, snow-crowned; while
between, a hundred miles or more, swelled and towered the Mountains--at
the base mere foot-hills, then ridge mounting on ridge and peak on
peak, until over and above all the Snowy Range cropped out sublime.
Patches of pines dotted their surface here and there, but the general
effect was that of nakedness and barrenness. Clouds hung about their
summits, or lingered along their sides; but the uprising sun soon
dissipated these, or sent them careering aloft, as if bound for heaven.
In the course of the morning we whirled into Denver, and there for
a week or more--by sunlight, by moonlight--the Mountains were ever
before us, in all their thousand varieties of tint and shadow. They
never seemed precisely the same. Some new point was ever looming up, or
flashing out--and yet they always realized one's best conceptions of
beauty, grandeur, vastness, and sublimity.
Subsequently, accepting an invitation to accompany Gen. Sherman and
Gov. Cumming to Southern Colorado and an Indian treaty there, we
spent nearly a month among the Rocky Mountains, following down their
eastern base and crossing them to Fort Garland, some two hundred and
fifty miles, and thence returning to Denver again through the heart
of them, _via_ San Luis Park, Homan's Park, and South Park. This trip
we made by ambulance, camping out at night, and rationing ourselves,
as there were no stages on the route and very few settlements. Our
little party, by the addition of officers and others at Denver, had
swelled to seven, exclusive of cook and teamsters. Our "outfit"
consisted of two four-horse ambulances and an army-wagon, with spare
animals for saddle or other purposes, as occasion required. We took
a tent along, but seldom had occasion to use it. We had blankets and
buffalo robes for the night; some stray books and magazines for the
day, when weary of the scenery; pipes and tobacco for all; and other
supplies, it seemed, _ad infinitum_. In the matter of arms, what
with our repeating-rifles and revolvers for Indians, and a brace of
fowling-pieces for game, our ambulances were travelling arsenals. And
from reports on leaving Denver, (Sept. 13th) we did not know but we
should want all, and more. With the usual exaggeration of the border,
the story current there was, that a Mexican belonging to one of the
settlements down below had quarrelled with a Ute about a squaw, and
wound up by killing him; that the Utes were consequently up in arms,
stealing stock and murdering the inhabitants; that Fort Garland was
already practically besieged; and that the United States was of "no
account, no how," because we did not send more troops to Colorado.
However, we started for Garland, well-armed as above; we did not meet
a hostile Indian on the way; and when we arrived there, we found
there hadn't been a settler molested, or mule stolen; and the whole
yarn had come from a Ute found dead, supposed killed by lightning.
When first discovered, near one of the settlements, the Utes were
considerably ruffled; but when the post-surgeon at Garland and their
medicine-man had examined him and found no marks of violence, the
chiefs laid their heads together and sagely concluded the Great
Spirit had called him.
Our course from Denver was about due South, following the trend of
the mountains, and always near them. For several days our road was
substantially over Fremont's old trail of 1843, across the high
"divide" between the Platte and Arkansas, and so down the dashing
_Fontaine qui Boulli_ to the Arkansas. This "divide" bears an
unenviable reputation, as a storm-region. Coloradoans aver, that
it rains, hails, snows, or blows there, when it is fair weather
all around it, and we were warned of it accordingly. It is a high
rolling region, running well up into the mountains, with Pike's Peak
frowning over it, and I suppose the configuration of the country
is such as to attract and concentrate storms there. We made haste
to get across it, but sure enough encountered both rain and hail,
though we found the country both north and south of it basking in a
dreamy, autumnal atmosphere, that seemed like the very wine of life.
That night we camped near "Dirty Woman's Ranch," close into the
mountains, and slept delightfully in a hay-yard. The sun went down in
a cloudless sky, transfiguring the snow-clad summit of Pike's Peak
with a glory all its own, whose pink and crimson faded into purple,
and this again to blue, as the day died out. So, too, the rest of the
range, from purple and blue, came out sharp and black against the
star-thick sky, and night shut down upon the Plains with scarcely a
sound to break the silence.
During the day, the blank monotony of the Plains was broken by
numerous "buttes," some of which were very surprising. The chief
one, "Castle-Rock," was an abrupt precipitous mass, well bastioned
and castellated, that rose sheer into the air several hundred feet,
as if the work of hammer and trowel. At a distance, it seemed almost
squarely perpendicular, but two of our party, who had galloped on
ahead, found an accessible path to the summit on its southeast side.
As we drove up abreast of it, we descried them on its dizzy edge,
but took them to be eagles or buzzards, until they out with their
handkerchiefs and fired off their pistols. The smoke curled away on
the breezy air, but the sound was inaudible down by the roadside as
we drove by. These "buttes" dot the country over there for miles,
standing solitary and alone--wholly disconnected from each other--and
are a strange feature of the Rocky Mountain region.
The next day we struck Monument Creek and followed this down to the
_Fontaine qui Bouilli_. Here the country for miles is marked by great
masses of sandstone and limestone, chiseled by wind and rain into the
most fantastic shapes and forms. Some are slender columns of gray or
red rock, a hundred feet or more in height, worn and smooth; while
others are cut and carved so curiously, that it seems they must be
the deft handiwork of man. Right under the shadow of Pike's Peak,
they seem to culminate, and here is Colorado's famous Garden of the
Gods. Entering from the roadside we passed through a little ravine,
that rapidly widened into a _bijou_ of a valley, and there near its
centre uprose two tremendous rocks, red dashed with gray, six hundred
feet long by two hundred high, tapering to a knife-like edge. They
were both inaccessible to man, but the elements had bored a hole
through the summit of one, that looked for all the world as if a round
shot or shell had knocked its way through there. A score of swallows
were twittering about this, as we passed by, and their nests were
visible all up and down the rocks. A little distance off stood three
red sandstones, ten or twelve feet in diameter, by a hundred or more
high, like the surviving columns of some ruined temple--one somewhat
splintered and shattered, but the others still uplifting their capitals
sublime against the sky. Farther on the whole country here is studded
for miles, with these wedge-shaped and columnar masses of red and gray
rock, some even on a grander scale, as though it were a cemetery of
Titans, marked by Cyclopean tombstones. It is a vast meadow, rich with
herbage, with Monument Creek meandering through it, vocal with the song
of birds, the whole lying close up under the overshadowing Mountains;
while over all, breaking sharp and clear against the faultless sky,
stands Pike's Peak, imperial in his majesty, dark below with pines
and firs, but his bald head crowned with eternal snows, looking calmly
down, as if God's sentinel keeping watch and ward over all below.
Altogether the grouping of the landscape there is very fine, as if the
gods had done their best; and on the glorious morning when we saw it,
beneath a perfect September sky, we thought Colorado had indeed here
much to be supremely proud of.
Some three miles farther on, near the banks of the _Fontaine qui
Bouilli_, which here comes boiling down from the foot of Pike's Peak,
there are several fine natural soda-springs. They come bubbling up
on either side of the stream from the far depths below, and their
overflow during the long ages has deposited large rocks of calcareous
tufa or carbonate of soda all about them. We tried this soda-water,
and found it as cool, and as sharp and titillating as that from a
city-fountain; and when treated with an acid, it effervesced and
vanished quite as freely. H---- and B---- tried it with lemons and
whiskey and reported their cocktails quite unequalled since leaving
New York. Col. Chivington, of Sand Creek memory, had recently
purchased these springs and the land adjacent for three thousand
dollars; but he was now asking ten thousand, though there had not
been a dollar expended for improvements yet. Combined with Pike's
Peak, the Garden of the Gods, and all the unique and romantic scenery
from there to Denver, as well as the general Plains and Mountains,
the investment did not seem to be a bad one, and no doubt will pay
handsomely some day. But it was then waiting the completion of
the Pacific Railroad, and the in-pouring of population, that all
Coloradoans then devoutly hoped and prayed for.[6]
Just beyond the Soda Springs, stood or rather _slept_ Colorado City.
We had been so unfortunate as to break our ambulance-tongue in
pulling out of a mud-hole, and halted there to have a new one made.
In the days of 1857-60, when mining centred at Pike's Peak, Colorado
City was the Denver of southwestern Colorado, and must have been
a place of considerable importance. But the "diggings" there long
since gave out, and C. C. was now in a bad way. Corner-lots were for
sale, dirt-cheap. It had plenty of empty shanties, but scarcely any
population; and what it had, were the sleepiest-looking Coloradoans
we had yet seen anywhere. The "hotel" or tavern, was forlorn and
dirty; the people, idle and listless; and the "City," as a whole,
was evidently hastening fast to the status of Goldsmith's Deserted
Village. Cañon City, farther up in the mountains, they told us, was
even worse off--having no inhabitants at all. It had good buildings,
some even of brick and stone, equal indeed to any in Colorado; but
all stood empty, like "some banquet-hall deserted," and the once
busy "City" was now as silent as Thebes or Petræ. Such is life in
our mining regions. Population comes and goes, as restless as the
sea, according as the "diggings" promise good "pay-dirt" or bad. And
what are prosperous and busy centres this year, next year may become
empty and deserted.[7] At sunset we went into camp on the banks of
the _Fontaine qui Bouilli_, while a snow-squall was careering around
Pike's Peak. Several of these had been prancing about his summit
during the afternoon, and about five P. M., one of them swept down
over the foothills and valley, with far out-stretched wings, giving
us a taste of its icy breath as we journeyed by. At sunset the hues
along the mountains and among the snow-peaks were magnificent and
glorious; but the air became keen and nipping as night fell, and
all the evening we hugged the fire closely. Just before dark, while
supper was cooking, two or three of us tried the _Fontaine qui
Bouilli_ for trout, and caught--not a nibble even!
Soon after leaving Colorado City the mountains trend away to the
southwest, while the road to Fort Garland continues on down the
_Fontaine qui Bouilli_ to the Arkansas. Fording this at Pueblo, and
subsequently its two affluents, the Greenhorn and the Huerfano, you
again strike the mountains, a hundred miles farther south, at the
foot of Sangre del Christo Pass. The high ridges or "divides" between
all of these streams are barren and sterile, to an extent little
imagined in the east; but the streams themselves are bordered by
broad valleys, rich and fertile, that as a rule need only irrigation
to produce luxuriantly. In some seasons they do not require even
this, as their proximity to the mountains affords them rains enough.
Still, no farmer is safe there without his system of _acequias_
or water-ditches, to irrigate if necessary; and we found these
everywhere constructed, if not in use, where settlements had been
made. In all of these valleys we already had scattered ranches--some
of them very large--and raised wheat, barley, corn, oats, etc.
in considerable quantities. Colorado had formerly imported all
her grain and flour from the Missouri, at an enormous cost; but
latterly she had drawn large supplies from these fertile valleys,
and in '66 considered herself about self-sustaining. Not more than
one-tenth, or less, of her arable land here, however, seemed to be
under cultivation, and agriculture even then was of the rudest and
simplest. The ranchmen were mainly Americans or Germans, but the
labor was all performed by Mexican peons, subjected for generations
to but one remove from slavery. It was the threshing season, and in
many places we saw them treading out their wheat and barley by mules,
with a Greaser on the back of each, lazily whiffing his cigarrito,
while his donkey dozed around. Elsewhere, their threshing done, we
saw them winnowing their grain by hand, as the breeze chanced along.
We did not see or hear of a threshing-machine or a fanning-mill in
the whole region there, and doubt if there was one. The Mexicans do
not comprehend these nineteenth century new-fangled notions, and
will have none of them. They prefer by far their old-time _dolce
far niente_. _Festina lente_ is their national maxim, and your
thorough-bred peon would choose a broncho rather than a locomotive
any day. And naturally enough, the American settlers here, we found,
were mostly from the south, and during the war had been none too
ardent for the Union.
Most of the farms here were large in size, and in crossing the
Greenhorn we passed through a noble ranch, twelve miles wide by
eighteen long, owned by a Mr. Zan Hincklin. In '65 he sold his crop
of grain for eighty thousand dollars, and in '66 expected to do
even better. He had on hand a thousand horses, three thousand head
of cattle, and six thousand sheep, all of which he grazed the year
round. He lived very plainly, in a rude adobe hut, that we should
think hardly fit for a canal-laborer east; but was as hospitable and
generous as a prince. We had scarcely gone into camp, on the banks
of the rippling Greenhorn, before he sent us over butter, eggs, and
vegetables, and bade us welcome to his heart and home. He acquired
his great estate by marrying one of the half-breed daughters of
the celebrated John Brent, who used to hunt and trap all through
this region, and who lived so long among the Indians that he became
himself half Red-Skin. He died possessed of vast tracts of land here,
acquired chiefly through trading with the Indians, but his children
it appeared, as a rule, had turned out poorly. One of his sons had
returned to Indian life, joining a wandering tribe, and others still
hung about the settlements, of small account to anybody.
From the Arkansas, the country gradually but constantly ascends, until
you strike the mountains again at the foot of Sangre del Christo
Pass. Here you follow up a dashing rivulet, that courses away to the
Huerfano, and advantage is taken of a depression in the main ridge to
cross into San Luis Park. We camped the night before in a sheltered
nook among the foot-hills, surrounded on three sides by gnarled piñon
trees, while the fourth opened on a little plateau sloping down to
a noisy brook, that afforded water and grass in abundance. The next
morning we breakfasted early, and were off up the Pass soon after
sunrise. The morning air was nipping, and as we advanced we found the
mists rolling down the mountains, and so off over the Plains eastward.
The teams being a little slow that morning in packing up and getting
off, some of us concluded to walk on; but we had not proceeded far,
before some one suggested this might be dangerous, as Indians were
reported about, and our arms were all behind in the ambulances.
Halting, therefore, for the rest to come up, two of us then secured
our Spencers and six-shooters, and mounting one a horse and the other
a mule pushed on ahead again. The ascent, though gentle, we found
nevertheless very constant, and gradually the ambulances dropped much
behind. The road led over a shelving plateau, and up a pretty sharp
hill, and then plunged by a rapid descent into a little valley again.
Here we met several men, with a drove of indifferent cattle and sheep,
_en route_ from Culebra to Denver and a market. Climbing out of this
valley, we struck a sharp ascent, that led southward along and up
the ridge, and then turning west by south struck straight across the
summit. As we raised the summit, a keen, fierce wind met us from the
west, and soon set our teeth to chattering in unison with it. On the
tip-top we found a contractor's train, _en route_ to Fort Garland
with supplies, doubling up ox-teams and doing its "level best" to
forge slowly ahead. The summit or ridge, the tip-top of the Rocky
Mountains--the very backbone of America here--we found only a few
hundred yards across; and then we came out on the western slope, with
all the glories of the San Luis Park nestling at our feet, or uprising
gorgeously before us. Below, the Park lay wrapped in a dreamy haze,
with the Sangre del Christo creek flashing onward through it; above,
peak on peak--huge, snow-white, and sublime--rimmed it round, as with
a crown. Over all, hung one of those blue and faultless skies, for
which the Rocky Mountains are so world-famous, with the sun sweeping
majestically through it, while God himself seemed ready to speak on
every side. This was to the west. Turning to the east, the view there
seemed, if possible, even more grand and sublime. Peak and ridge,
plateau and foot-hill, stretched away beneath us; in the distance the
brace of Spanish Peaks, two bold "buttes" passed the day before, shot
up abruptly six thousand feet into the sky, from the dead level of
the Plains around them; while beyond and around to the dim horizon,
east, north, and south, for hundreds of miles, outstretched the
illimitable Plains. The elevation of the Pass is given, as about ten
thousand feet above the sea. At our feet, the fog was breaking up and
rolling off eastward in sullen masses, which the morning sun gilded
with glory, or here and there pierced through and through down to the
earth beneath. Soon it passed away into airy clouds, careering along
the sky, and presently vanished altogether. And then the Plains! The
Plains! How their immense outstretch absorbed and overwhelmed the eye!
It was not the ocean, but something much grander and vaster, than even
the ocean seems. If you could view the sea from the same altitude,
doubtless the impression would be much the same. But what is the
loftiest mast-head, compared with the summit of Sangre del Christo?
The grandeur and sublimity of the scene awed one into silence, as if
in the presence of Deity himself, and the great and holy thoughts
of that hour well repaid us for all our toil and fatigue. Say what
we may, there is something gracious and ennobling in such mountain
scenery, which men can illy dispense with. How it deepens and widens
one's feelings! How it broadens and uplifts one's thoughts! How it
strengthens--emboldens--one's manhood! What Switzerland is to Europe,
and New England to the Atlantic States, this and more, the whole Rocky
Mountain region will yet become to America.
Descending the mountains westward, a ride of a mile or two brought us
to a spring, where a Mexican was taking his noon-day meal of tortillas,
while his inevitable mule was cropping the grass near by. H. dismounted
and scooped up a drink with his hands, Indian fashion, but I was not
yet thirsty enough for that. A mile or two farther, still descending,
brought us to the head of Sangre del Christo creek, a dashing rivulet
fed by snow streams, that runs thence to the Rio Grande. A winding
defile or cañon, of steady though not very rapid descent, affords a
bed-way down the Pass and out into the San Luis Park, and down this
the wild little creek shoots very serpentinely. It crosses the road no
less than twenty-six times in ten miles, and constantly reminds you of
the famous Yankee fence, which was made up of such crooked rails, that
when the pigs crept through it they never exactly knew whether they
were inside or out! We jogged leisurely down the creek, until we judged
we were some six or seven miles from the summit, and perhaps half way
down the mountain, when we halted for the teams to come up. The wind
blew sharply up the Pass still, though it was now much after noon, and
we found the shelter of a neighboring ravine very welcome. Here we
unsaddled our animals, and turned them loose to graze. They fed up and
down the ravine, cropping the rich herbage there, but would never stray
over a hundred yards or so away, when they would turn and graze back
to us again. On such mountain trips saddle-animals become attached to
their riders, and will seldom leave of their own accord. So, also, they
are unerring sentinels, and always announce the approach of Indians
or others with a neigh or bray. Building a royal fire with the dry
fir-trees there, we next spread our saddle-blankets on the ground, and
then with our saddles under our heads, and our feet Indian-fashion
to the fire, smoked and talked until the rest arrived. About two P.
M. I noticed Kate (my mule) stop grazing and snuff the air, very
inquiringly; presently, with a whisk of her tail and a salutatory bray,
she darted down the ravine, as if thoroughly satisfied; and in a minute
or two along came the ambulances, with our friends chilled through,
despite their robes and blankets. All tumbled out to stretch their
benumbed limbs, and we ate lunch around our impromptu fire grouped
very picturesquely.
Meanwhile about everybody nearly had got "trout on the brain." We
had caught frequent glimpses of the speckled beauties, as we crossed
Sangre del Christo creek or rode along its banks, and concluded to
go into camp early, so as to try our luck with a fly or two. A good
camping place was found a mile or two farther on, near the foot of
the Pass, and here while supper was preparing, several of us rigged
up our lines and started off. H. and I were most unfortunate; we
whipped the stream up and down quite a distance, but came back
fishless. H. caught a bite, and I several nibbles, but neither of
us landed a trout. We could see plenty of them, young dandies,
darting about in the black pools, or, old fogies, floating along by
the banks; but they were Arcadian in their tastes, and disdained
the fancy flies we threw them. Dr. M. and L., however, had better
luck. The spirit of good Isaak Walton seemed to rest upon and abide
with them. They caught a dozen or more, of handsome mountain trout,
weighing from two to three pounds each, and the next morning when
brought on our rude table for breakfast, hot and smoking from the
fire, nothing could have been more savory and delicious. Gen. B. and
L. turned cooks for the occasion, and judged by the result Delmonico
might have envied them. Their broiled trout, fresh from the brook and
now piping hot, buttered and steaming, assailed both eye and palate
at once, and we awarded them the palm, _nem. con._
The weather that day, from noon on, had grown steadily colder, though
the sun shone unclouded most of the time, and before we got our camp
well pitched a snow-squall struck us. The flakes came thick and fast
for awhile, but presently passed away, though more or less continued
sifting downward until nightfall. Farther up the Pass, around the
crest of the mountains, snow-squalls marched and countermarched most
of the afternoon, and at sunset the air grew nippingly cold, even
down where we were. We soon pitched our tent, and built a glorious
fire in front of it; but that not sufficing, supper once over, we
carried our sheet-iron cooking-stove inside, and all huddled about
that. When bed-time came, blankets, buffalo-robes and great-coats
were all in demand; yet in spite of all, we passed a sorry night of
it, and morning dawned at last greatly to our relief.
We reached Fort Garland next day (Sept. 20) about one, P. M., without
meeting a single Indian, either hostile or friendly. Denver, as
before said, had warned us to be on our guard, and we tried to be;
but all reported dangers vanished as we advanced--Munchausen after
Munchausen exploding in turn. From the Huerfano across the mountains
to Garland, some fifty miles or more, there was but a single ranch,
and scarcely anybody on the road. A Mexican on foot and another
on a donkey were emigrating to the Huerfano, and at one point we
encountered a whole family similarly engaged. Paterfamilias, whiffing
his cigarito, led a diminutive broncho (Mexican for jackass) about
the size of a spring calf, on which sat his household gods, to wit,
his Señora also smoking, with a child before and another behind
her--all of them astride. Another broncho of about the same size
followed on behind, loaded down with clothing, bedding, and various
domestic utensils until there was but little to be seen of him except
his legs. What the locomotive is to the Yankee, and the horse to the
borderer, that the broncho is to the Mexican, and the two seem alike
fitted for each other and inseparable. His patient little beast
costs but little, and when stopping browses by the wayside the best
it may, while Don Quixote himself sits basking in the sunshine.
The serene and infinite content of a Mexican peon, as he sits thus
wrapped in his poncho or serape, sucking his everlasting cigarrito,
no American can imagine. His dignity is as perfect as that of a
Castilian; but the stolidity of his brain, who shall describe?
Some fifteen miles or so from Fort Garland, in the heart of the San
Luis Park, lies San Luis de Culebra, a hamlet of five or six hundred
people, and I believe, the most considerable "city," there. You
strike the Park proper some distance east of Fort Garland, and from
there to Culebra the country is substantially a dead-level. Culebra
was then a genuine Mexican town without an atom of the Yankee in or
about it, and seemed a thousand years old, it was so sleepy, though
comparatively a new settlement. Its houses were all one-story adobes,
with chimneys in the corner, in the true Mexican style, and were all
grouped about a central "plaza," of course, or the town would not
be Mexican. All Southern Colorado, it will be remembered, formerly
belonged to New Mexico, and hence these Mexican settlements here and
beyond. The people raised wheat, barley, and oats to some extent; but
depended on their flocks and herds chiefly for support. We entered
Culebra at dark, amidst a multitudinous chorus of dogs, and halted
at the house of Capt. D. a bright German, formerly an officer of New
Mexican Volunteers, but who had recently married a Culebra señorita
and settled there. He gave us an excellent supper, after which we all
adjourned to a "baille," or Mexican Ball, gotten up especially in
honor of Gen. Sherman and Gov. Cumming, but which Sherman was unable
to attend. Several of his staff-officers, however, and the governor
were present, and these with the rest of us made up quite a party.
These _bailles_ are great institutions among the New Mexicans, who
retain all the old Spanish fondness for music and dancing, and are
ready for a "baille," any time. The Culebrans had already had two or
three that week, but got up the Sherman-Cumming one on short notice
and in grand style. The only thing necessary was to engage a room and
music, and send a runner through the village, to announce a baille
was on the tapis, and the whole population--men, women, children,
dogs, and fleas--were sure to be there. At the primitive hour of
eight P. M. the people began to assemble, and by nine P. M. the
baille was in full blast. The ball-room itself was an adobe building,
one-story high, perhaps fifty feet long by thirty wide, with a dirt
floor, and seats all around. At the farther end was a rude bar, with
a transparency over it, bearing the motto, "Limonade and Egg-nog," at
which each cavalier was expected to treat his lady from time to time.
Near this was a rough platform for the musicians, who consisted of
three or four violinists, led by an irrepressible guitarist--blind
and quite a character in his way. As the evening progressed, he
worked himself up into an ecstacy of enthusiasm, and then, with his
eyes "in fine phrensy rolling," improvised words to every piece
they played. He appeared perfectly absorbed and carried away with
playing and singing, and when a dance ended seemed quite exhausted.
No bone-ist, or tambourine-ist, in a troupe of minstrels east,
ever performed with more thorough and reckless abandon. His head
was thrown back; his eye-balls rolled wildly: his coarse, matted,
coal-black hair swept his shoulders: his long and bony fingers fairly
flew up and down his quivering guitar: while his shrill, piping,
tenor voice rose and fell above the music, in thorough unison with
the general scene. Later in the evening, after frequent potations of
egg-nog, Don Jesus, (for that was his name) became immensely funny,
and his gyrations amused us greatly.
With the first sound of the violins, the couples took the floor,
and kept it up vigorously to the "wee sma' hours." The older people
participated less, but young and old were all there, apparently the
whole population, in their best "bib and tucker." Women came carrying
their infants, and others held the babies while their mothers danced.
The younger people, down to mere boys and girls, of course, all
danced. First came some slow, stately Spanish dances; but presently
they slid into schottisches and polkas, and performed these with a
vigor worthy of New York or Paris. Many present were dressed humbly,
and but few comparatively were well dressed; but ornaments abounded,
and the baille or fandango seemed to put all on an equality. Most
of our party selected partners, and soon were lost in the maze and
whirl. True, they could not speak a word of Spanish, nor their
señoritas any English; but that did not matter, as the Mexicans
regard it as a mark of ill-breeding to converse while dancing. Their
manner of saluting each other, when first they met, was unique and
original, to wit: the sexes poked their heads over each other's
shoulders, and took a good old fashioned hug. Throughout the evening,
of course, there was a total absence of indecorum. As a whole, they
seemed to be honest, simple folk, who took life as it came, without
fret or worriment, and enjoyed themselves greatly. There was less
beauty among the women, but more intelligence among the men, than we
expected; their hospitality was hearty and generous--they did their
best to give us a pleasant evening; and altogether the baille at
Culebra was an event long to be remembered. I left Gov. C. at 11
P. M., looking on and enjoying it, and went to sleep on a good wool
bed--the only kind used there--in a comfortable room, for the first
time since leaving Denver.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] I believe these are now called Colorado Springs, and much
resorted to, and Manitou is somewhere about the Garden of the Gods.
[7] The Denver and Santa Fe narrow-gauge railroad, now in operation,
following the mountains down, has doubtless done much to revive and
stimulate this whole region again. But it halts, I believe at Pueblo
for the present.