DENVER TO SALT LAKE.
From Denver, we shipped eastward by express the various Indian
trophies, we had secured--shields, lances, bows and arrows, grizzly
bear-skins, etc.--and rested for a day or two. We found the weather
there hot and oppressive, compared with what we had experienced in
the Mountains, and the change to the dry atmosphere of the one, from
the moist air of the other, affected us very sensibly. Here they were
still wearing summer clothing, though in the Mountains we needed our
great-coats, and Denver mocked at winter as weeks yet to come. From
Denver the Mountains as a whole seemed grander than ever; and the view
of them at sunset from our hotel windows could scarcely be finer, as
the snowy range and the heaven-kissing peaks one by one faded away,
through orange, crimson and purple into night. The majesty and grandeur
of the general range impress one more there at Denver, I think, than
elsewhere; and then, there is always something new about these mighty
Mountains--they never seem the same for an hour together. A difference
of clouds, or of atmosphere, or of your own point of vision, makes all
the difference in the world; and to me, I confess, the Rocky Mountains
from Denver were always a constant joy and perpetual delight. So calm,
so grand, so superb, such stately rest, such profound peace. As if they
upheld the sky, and steadied the earth, and did it easily. If there
be no God, no being of infinite wisdom and goodness, there ought to be
one, to account for the might and majesty, the beauty and sublimity,
with which the universe is filled, when it might so easily have been
monotonous and commonplace.
Finally, Oct. 4th, we closed up our duties at Denver, and started
for Salt Lake. The stage left at 8 P. M., and after much hearty
hand-shaking and kindly good-byes, we were at last off for the
Pacific. For the first time we fully realized, that we had definitely
cut loose from the Atlantic States, and had a long and toilsome trip
now before us. I remember a feeling of sadness, as this conviction
came sharply upon me; but we were soon whirling across the Platte,
and off for Laporte. The fare through to Salt Lake, some 600 miles,
with 25 pounds of baggage, was $150, currency; meals extra, at $1,00
and $1,50 each. Our coach, "Red Rupert," was a mountain mud-wagon,
with a low canvas top, so as to be less liable to capsize in crossing
the range, than a regular Concord Coach, and was intended for ten
passengers--nine inside and one outside. As we had only half that
number of passengers, however, we thought we would get along very
comfortably. We had gamey, spirited horses, that carried us along
quite rapidly, until near midnight, when we stuck fast in a mudhole,
and all hands were ordered up to help shift baggage and lift the
coach out. Next morning early we rolled into Laporte, having made
seventy-five miles since leaving Denver. It was a bright clear
morning, with a crisp bracing air, and we sat down to an excellent
breakfast of fried elk, potatoes, eggs, etc., as hungry as wolves. In
the corner of the room, at a rude table, sat a little bearded man,
eyeing us occasionally as he bent over his maps and papers, whose
face seemed familiar; and presently I recognized him as Gen. Dodge,
an old acquaintance of war times in Tennessee in 1864. Now he was
Chief Engineer of the Union Pacific Railroad, and was here comparing
maps and surveys, to see whether they couldn't find a shorter route
to Salt Lake, than the somewhat circuitous one by Bridger's Pass. He
recognized me about the same moment, and we had a hearty hand-shake
and chat over old times.
Past Laporte, our road speedily entered the foot-hills, or
"hog-backs" as the Coloradoans call them; and all day long we were
bowling ahead, either between or across these. These abrupt ridges
hid our view of the Plains and Mountains usually, so that the day's
ride as a whole proved dull and monotonous. We were well armed, but
saw no Indians, nor any game worth mentioning. It was plain, that
the road was gradually ascending, but there were no sharp ascents,
and but little to indicate, that we were actually crossing the
Rocky Mountains. The country, as a whole, was rocky and barren in
the extreme. Here and there the old red sandstone cropped out, and
had been fashioned by the elements into all sorts of curious forms,
which travellers had named Castle Rock, Steamboat Rock, Indian Chief,
etc. The day's ride ended at Virginia Dale, where we got a tolerable
dinner, and found an exquisite little valley, as if nature was trying
just there quite to outdo herself. Abrupt mountains tower all around
and shut it in like a picture, while the entrance to and exit from
the vale are bold and precipitous. With its limpid stream, green
sward, and bristling pines, it seemed like an oasis in the desert
of the foot-hills there; and a party of miners encamped there for
the night, _en route_ from Montana to the States, appeared to enjoy
its freshness and beauty to the full. We met several such parties
of miners between Denver and Salt Lake, all bound east to winter,
expecting to return in the spring. They said the difference in the
cost of living would more than pay them for the trip, while at the
same time they would be with their families and friends. They moved
in parties of a dozen or so, and said they considered themselves safe
against all hostile comers, whether Road Agents or Indians. They were
all well-mounted, and literally bristling with rifles, revolvers,
and bowie-knives. Their baggage and "traps" generally were usually
piled high on pack-horses or mules, that they drove along ahead of
them. They all carried their own provisions, and when night came
camped down by the nearest stream, where there was wood, water, and
grass. Such a life has its hardships and risks, but is not without
its enjoyments also; and many an eastern cockney might well envy the
big-bearded, bronzed, weather-beaten, but apparently thoroughly happy
fellows, that we met _en route_.
We left Virginia Dale about 6 P. M. and the same night about 10 P.
M. reached Willow Springs, one of the most desolate stage-stations
on the road. It was a raw chilly night, and while the stage-men were
changing horses, all of the passengers except myself got out and
strolled off to the station-house--a hundred yards or so away--to get
warm. Weary with the stage ride of two days and nights continuously,
I remained half-dozing in the coach, wrapped in my buffalo-robe, when
suddenly I was aroused by a distant noise, that grew rapidly louder
and nearer, and presently came thundering down the road directly
toward the station. While pondering what it could be, half-sleepy
still, all at once the station-keeper, who was helping with the
horses, broke out with:
"I say, Tom (our driver), hark! Do you hear that?"
"Yes, Billy! What the deuce is it?"
"Why, good heavens, it must be the infernal Injuns, shure as
you live! The d--d Red Skins, I reckon, hev jest stampeded that
Government-train down the road thar; and they'll all be yer, licketty
split, quicker than lightnin', you bet!"
I was wide awake in a second, now. They pushed the horses quickly
back into the stable, and shouted to me to seize all the arms and
hurry to the station-house. I was not certain, that it was not better
to stand by the coach, and "fight it out on that line," come what
might; but concluded the stage-men knew more about such encounters
than I did, and so followed their directions. Out I tumbled, gathered
up all the rifles and revolvers I could lay my hands on, and rushed
to the station-house, shouting "Indians! Indians!" Soon the driver
and stock-tenders came running in from the stable, as fast as their
legs could carry them; and for a few minutes we thought we had the
Indians upon us at last, sure enough. The pluck of the party, I must
say, was admirable. L. and M. stood to their guns. Nobody thought
of flight or surrender. But all quickly resolved, as we grasped our
rifles and revolvers, to make the best stand we could, and to fight
it out in that shanty, if it took all summer. But presently, as the
mules thundered up the road and past us, just as we were about to
fire on one of their pursuers, we saw him tumble from his horse all
sprawling, as it stumbled across a chuck-hole, and as he gathered
himself up heard him break out swearing in good vigorous English,
that stamped him as a Pale Face beyond a question. The swearing
probably saved his life, however objectionable otherwise, and we were
soon at his side. We found him more stunned, than hurt, and presently
his comrades succeeded in stopping the herd. They were unable to say
what had caused the stampede; but as no Indians appeared, we were
soon off on the road again.
These "stampedes" of animals are not uncommon on the Plains, and
sometimes prove very embarrassing. A herd of mules, well stampeded,
will run for miles, over every thing that opposes them, until they
tire themselves thoroughly out. Had we been on the road, they would
probably have stampeded our stage-horses--thundering up so behind
us--and then there would have been a break-neck race by night, among
the Rocky Mountains, that would have been rather exciting, not to say
more. It is a favorite trick of the Indians, when they want to steal
stock, to stampede them thus at night, and then run off the scattered
animals. A large freight-train, that we subsequently heard of, had
lost all its mules a few nights before by such a stampede, and been
compelled to send back to the nearest settlement for others.
Thence on to the North Platte, our route wound over and between
foot-hills and ridges, where the general ascent was indeed perceptible,
but never difficult. One by one we flanked the main ranges, and at old
Fort Halleck, 8,000 feet above the sea, found a natural depression or
cañon through the Mountains, in the absence of which a wagon-road there
would be seemingly impossible. It really appeared, as if nature had
cleft the range there expressly to accommodate the oncoming future; and
we swung through it, and so down to the North Platte, at a steady trot.
Here and there, in crossing the ridges, we caught exquisite glimpses
of snowy peaks off to the west, and of the far-stretching Laramie
Plains off to the east; but the country, as a whole, was barren and
desolate. We reached the North Platte just at dusk, having made 104
miles in the last 24 hours. This seemed a good day's drive, considering
we were crossing the Rocky Mountains; but it was not quite up to the
regular schedule. We had hoped to get down into the Platte valley
before dark, but daylight left us before we reached the station. We had
caught long stretches of the valley, as we came over the ridges and
down the bluffs; but darkness fell so suddenly, we saw little of it
close at hand. Parts of it, we were told, are well adapted to farming,
and nearly all of it could be made cultivable by proper irrigation;
but it seemed too cold for anything but grass, and the more hardy
cereals. No doubt it could be made available for grazing purposes,
and the cañons of the neighboring Mountains would afford shelter and
grass for winter. Antelope and elk were reported quite abundant still
in the valley. We saw a herd of antelope feeding quietly, a mile away,
soon after we struck the valley, and at the station they gave us
elk-steaks for dinner--"fried," of course, as usual. Gold was reported
in the Mountains beyond, but little had been done there yet in the
way of mining. No doubt the Rocky Mountains are penetrated nearly
everywhere by gold-bearing veins, and where these crop out, and water
runs, "placer mines"--more or less lucrative--will be found. We found
the North Platte a very considerable stream, though readily fordable
then and there. It had already come a long distance through and out of
the Mountains, and now struck eastward by Fort Laramie, for its long
journey through the Plains to the Missouri. What a delightfully lazy,
dreamy, lotus-eating voyage it would be, to embark upon its waters in
an Indian canoe, far up among the Mountains, and float thence day by
day, and week after week, adown the Missouri, _via_ the Mississippi, to
the sea!
At North Platte, we changed our mountain mud-wagon, for a coach
lighter and less top-heavy still, and pushed on continuing to
ascend. We left Colorado near Fort Halleck, and were now in
Wyoming. At Bridger's Pass, we were at last fairly across the Rocky
Mountains--had left the east and the Atlantic slope behind us--and
turned our faces fully Pacificwards. The North Platte was the last
stream flowing east, and about 3 A. M., after leaving it we struck
the headwaters of Bitter Creek, a tributary of Green River, that
flows thence _via_ the great Rio Colorado and the Gulf of California
two thousand miles away to the Pacific. The Rocky Mountains, the
great water-shed of the continent, were thus over and past; but we
had crossed the summit so easily we were not aware of it, until our
driver informed us. Our first introduction to the Pacific slope
was hardly an agreeable one. At our great elevation the night was
bitterly cold, and we had shivered through its long hours, in spite
of our blankets and buffalo-robes. Routed out at 3 A. M., for
breakfast, we straggled into the stage-station at Sulphur Springs,
cold and cross, to find only dirty alkali water to wash in, and
the roughest breakfast on the table we had seen yet, since leaving
the States. Coffee plain, saleratus-biscuit hot, and salt pork
fried--only this and nothing more--made up the charming variety,
and we bolted it all, I fear, as surlily as bears. A confused
recollection of cold, and discomfort, and misery, is all that remains
in my memory now of that wretched station at Sulphur Springs, and may
I never see the like again!
Long before daylight we were off on the road again, and now had fairly
entered the Desert of the Mountains, the famous or infamous "Bitter
Creek Country," accursed of all who cross the continent. Here, when
the sun got fairly up, the sharp keen winds of the night hours changed
to hot sirocco breezes, that laden with the alkali dust there became
absolutely stifling. Alkali or soda--the basis of common soap--abounds
throughout all this region for two or three hundred miles, and
literally curses all nature everywhere. It destroys all vegetation,
except sage-brush and grease-wood, and exterminates all animals, except
cayotes and Indians. The Indians even mostly desert the country, and
how the cayotes manage to "get on" is a wonder and astonishment. The
wheels of our coach whirled the alkali into our faces by day and by
night, in a fine impalpable dust, that penetrated everywhere--eyes,
ears, nose, mouth--and made all efforts at personal cleanliness a
dismal failure. The only results of our frequent ablutions were
chapped hands and tender faces--our noses, indeed, quite peeling off.
In many places the alkali effloresced from the soil, and at a little
distance looked like hoar-frost. It polluted the streams, giving the
water a dirty milky hue and disgusting taste, and in very dry seasons
makes such streams rank poison to man and beast. The plains of Sodom
and Gomorrah, after the vengeance of Jehovah smote them, could not
have been much worse than this Desert of the Mountains; and good John
Pierpont must certainly have had some such region in his mind's eye,
when he wrote so felicitously:
"There the gaunt wolf sits on his rock and howls,
And there in painted pomp the savage Indian prowls."
One wretched day, while traversing this region, one of our
passengers, from whom we expected better things, unable to "stand
the pressure" longer, indulged too freely in Colorado whiskey; and
that night we had to fight the _delirium tremens_, as well. He tried
several times to jump out of the coach, and made the night hideous
with his screams; but we succeeded finally in getting him down under
one of the seats, and thus carried him safely along. As if to add
to our misfortunes, soon after midnight one of our thorough-braces
broke, and then we had to go humping along on the axle-tree for ten
or twelve miles, until we reached the next station. This no doubt
was a good antidote to John Barleycorn; but it scarcely improved our
impressions of "Bitter Creek."
At Laclede, in the heart of the Bitter Creek Country, we halted one
day for dinner, and were agreeably surprised by getting a very good
one. This station had once been famed for the poorness of its fare,
and so great were the complaints of passengers, that Mr. Holliday
resolved to take charge of this and several others himself. He
imported flour and vegetables from Denver or Salt Lake, and employed
hunters on the Platte to shoot antelope and elk, and deliver them
along at these stations as required. The groceries, of course, had
all to come from the Missouri or the Pacific. We found a tidy,
middle-aged, Danish woman in charge at Laclede--a Mormon imported
from Salt Lake--and she gave us the best meal we had eaten since
leaving Laporte or Denver. We complimented her on the table, and on
the general cleanliness and neatness of the station; and she seemed
much gratified, as she had a right to be.
Our ride through the Bitter Creek region, as a whole, however, was
thoroughly detestable, and how the slow-moving emigrant and freight
trains ever managed to traverse it was surprising. The bleaching
bones of horses, mules, and oxen whitened every mile of it, and
the very genius of desolation seemed to brood over the landscape.
Nevertheless, the station-keepers averred, there were cañons back
of the bluffs, where grass grew freely; and they pointed to their
winter's supply of hay in stack, as proof of this. So, too, at Black
Buttes station, we found good bituminous coal burning in a rude
grate, and were shown a bluff a hundred yards away where it was
mined. Elsewhere we heard of petroleum "showing" well, and one day
I suggested to our driver, that as the Creator never made anything
uselessly, there must be some compensation here after all.
"Bother, stranger!" he rejoined; "The Almighty'd nothin to du with
this yer region. 'Tother fellar (pointing downward) made Bitter
Creek, ef it ever war made at all; tho, I reckin, it war just _left_!"
"But what about the coal?" I said.
"Dunno ef there's enny thar! But ef thar be, Providence only 'lowed it,
jist to help in the last conflaggerration--you bet! He didn't mean enny
human critter to live yer, and mine it--not by a long shot--you bet!"
At several points, however, we observed the bluffs abounded in slate
shales, and other coal-bearing earths; and as we suspected then,
the Union Pacific Railroad has already developed a vast deposit
of coal there. Bitter Creek itself flowed sluggishly by us for a
day or so, and was a little miserable stream, that just managed to
crawl--usually at the bottom of a deep gulch or abrupt cañon--its
chalky color proclaiming its alkali taint even before you tasted
it. We must have followed it for a hundred miles or more, and yet
it continued very nearly the same in size throughout. What water it
drained in one locality was largely evaporated in another, and its
wretched, villanous character made it everywhere an eye-sore, instead
of a pleasing feature in the landscape as it should have been. But
enough of Bitter Creek, and its God-forsaken region.
Past Green river, here a considerable stream, we entered the Butte
region, and one evening just before sunset approached Church Butte,
the most famous of them all. It was too late in the day to explore
it, but we had a grand view of it in the shifting sunlight, as we
drove slowly by. On the box with the driver, a portion of it was
pointed out, that resembled a colossal Dutchman, about lifting to his
mouth a foaming beaker. Further on, as we rolled westward, the Teuton
faded out, and the church-like character of the Butte more fully
appeared. Seen from the west, it presents a very wonderful likeness
to an old-time cathedral, of the Gothic type, and at a distance
might well be taken for the crumbling ruins of some such edifice,
though of cyclopean proportions. Porch, nave, dome, caryatides,
fluted columns, bas-reliefs, broken roof and capitals--all are there
in shapes more or less perfect, and the illusion was very striking
in the shadowy twilight. The Butte itself, like most others there,
is a vast mass of sandstone, covered with tenacious blue clay, both
of which are being constantly chiseled down by wind and rain. These
buttes all seemed either to have been upheaved from the dead level
around them, or else to be the surviving portions of great mountain
chains, from which the earth has been washed or blown away, leaving
their skeletons--so to speak--behind in solitary grandeur. The latter
theory seemed more probable, judging by the general direction of the
buttes themselves. Much of the scenery about here for a hundred miles
or so, was enlivened by sandstone bluffs, cut and chiseled by the
elements into castles, fortresses, etc., that frowned majestically at
us in the distance; but we were only too glad to quit their grandeur
and sublimity, that turned only to barren rocks as we approached,
and to hail some signs of cultivation again as we neared Fort
Bridger. No doubt the wind has been an important agency in fashioning
all these, though scarcely to the extent that is claimed by some
travellers. In Bowles' "_Across the Continent_," he tells a story
about a wind-storm down in Colorado, that dashed the sand against a
window so furiously, that a common pane of glass was converted into
"the most perfect of ground glass," in a single night! We met a good
many Coloradoans, who were laughing at this "yarn," and were told
to set it down among other good "Rocky Mountain" stories. The fact
is, people who live out there on those vast Plains, or among those
great Mountains, become demoralized with the amplitude of everything;
and when they attempt to narrate, unconsciously--I suppose--get
to exaggerating. Not intentionally; of course not. But bigness
"rules the hour," and we early learned to distrust--and discount
largely--most of the extraordinary stories we heard.
We reached Fort Bridger late at night (Oct. 8th), and found ourselves
pretty well jaded, both in body and mind. We had been four days and
nights continuously on the road since leaving Denver, and in that
time had made four hundred and eighty miles. This was the hardest
ride by stage-coach we had had yet, and altogether was a pretty fair
test of one's power of endurance. We became so accustomed to the
coach, that we could fall asleep almost any time; but slumber in a
stage-coach, or rather "mountain mud-wagon," is only a poor apology
for "tired nature's sweet restorer," after all. The first night
out, there being but five of us, four each "pre-empted" a corner,
while the fifth man "camped down" on the middle seat. Along about
11 P. M. we struck a piece of extra good road, the conversation
gradually wound up, each settled back into his great-coat and robe,
and presently we were all fairly off into dreamland. A half hour or
so rolls by, when bump goes the coach against an obstinate rock, or
chuck into a malicious mud-hole; your neighbor's head comes bucking
against you, or you go bucking wildly against him; the man on the
middle seat rolls off and wakes up, with a growl or objurgation,
that seems half excusable; your friends on the front seat get their
legs tangled and twisted up with yours, or you get yours twisted and
tangled up with theirs--you don't exactly know which; and, in short,
everybody wakes up chaotic and confused, not to say dismal and cross.
Of course you try it again after a while, you wrap your robes still
better about you, you adjust your legs more carefully than before,
and settling down again into your corner, think now you will surely
get a good sleep. However, you hardly get to nodding fairly, before
there comes a repetition of your former dismal experiences, and so
the night wears on like a hideous dream. A series of unusual jolts
and bumps disgusts every one with even the attempt to sleep, and
presently all hands drift into a general talk or smoke. The history
of one night is the wretched history of all--only each successive
one, as you advance, becomes "a little more so." Long before reaching
Fort Bridger, we were in a sort of a half-comatose condition, with
every bone aching, and every inch of flesh sore, and with the romance
of stage-coaching gone from us forever. Now, if a man's body were
made of india-rubber, or his arms and legs were telescopic, so as to
lengthen out and shorten up, perhaps such continuous travelling would
not be so bad. But, as it is, I confess, it was a great weariness
to the flesh, and looking back on it now, with the Pacific Railroad
completed--its express trains and palace-cars in motion--I don't
really see how poor human nature managed to endure it. Conversation
is a good thing _per se_, but most men converse themselves out
in a day or two. So, a good joke or a popular song helps to fill
the hiatus somewhat, and accordingly we buried "John Brown," and
"Rallied round the flag," and "Marched through Georgia," day after
day, until they got to be a "bore," even to the most severely
patriotic among us. Our only constant and unfailing friends were our
briar-wood pipes, and what a _corps de reserve_ they were! Possibly
smoking has its evils--I don't deny it--but no man has thoroughly
tested the heights and depths of life, or shall I say its altitudes
and profundities, its joys and its sorrows, its mysteries and
miseries--especially stage-coaching--who has not bowed at the shrine
of Killykinnick, and puffed and whiffed as it pleased him. There
is such comfort, and solace, and philosophy in it, when sojourning
on the Plains, or camped down among the Mountains, or cast away
in a stage-coach, that all the King Jameses and Dr. Trasks in the
universe, I suspect, will never be able to overcome or abolish it.
Our horses were usually steady-going enough, the splendid teams of
the Plains; but one night, just before reaching Fort Bridger, we had
a team of fiery California mustangs, never geared up but once before,
and, of course, they ran away. The road was slightly descending, but
pretty smooth, and for the time our heavy, lumbering mountain mud-wagon
went booming along, like a ship under full sail. Presently, too, the
lead-bars broke, and as they came rattling down on the heels of the
leaders, we had every prospect for awhile of a general over-turn and
smash-up. But our driver, a courageous skillful Jehu, "put down the
brakes," and at length succeeded in halting his runaways, just as we
approached a rocky precipice, over which to have gone would have been
an ugly piece of business. We expected an upset every minute, with all
its attending infelicities; but luckily escaped.
We halted at Fort Bridger two or three days, to inspect this post and
consider its bearings, and so became pretty well rested up again.
Some miles below the Fort, Green River subdivides into Black's and
Smith's Forks, and the valleys of both of these we found contained
much excellent land. Judge Carter, the sutler and postmaster at
Bridger, and a striking character in many ways, already had several
large tracts under cultivation, by way of experiment, and the next
year he expected to try more. His grass was magnificent; his oats,
barley, and potatoes, very fair; but his wheat and Indian corn
wanted more sunshine. The post itself is 7,000 feet above the sea,
and the Wahsatch Mountains just beyond were reported snow-capped the
year round. Black's Fork runs directly through the parade-ground,
in front of the officers' quarters, and was said to furnish superb
trout-fishing in season. In summer, it seemed to us, Bridger must be
a delightful place; but in winter, rather wild and desolate. Apart
from the garrison, the only white people there, or near there, were
Judge Carter and his employees. A few lodges of Shoshones, the famous
Jim Bridger with them, were encamped below the Fort; but they were
quiet and peaceable. The Government Reservation there embraced all
the best lands for many miles, and practically excluded settlements;
otherwise no doubt quite a population would soon spring up. Sage-hens
abounded in the neighboring "divides," and we bagged several of
them during a day's ride by ambulance over to Smith's Fork and
return. We found them larger and darker, than the Kansas grouse or
prairie-chicken; but no less rich and gamey in taste. Maj. Burt, in
command at Bridger, was an enthusiastic sportsman; but our ambulance
broke down seven miles out, and we had to foot it back after dark.
We were now in Utah proper, and Judge Carter was Probate Judge of
the young county there. A Virginian by birth, from near Fairfax
Court-House, he enlisted in the army at an early age, and served as
a private for awhile in Florida. It was a romantic freak, and his
friends soon had him discharged; but he still continued with the
army, as purveyor or sutler. Subsequently, he accompanied our troops
to California; but afterwards returned east, and followed Albert
Sidney Johnston to Utah in 1858. When in that year Fort Bridger was
established, he was appointed sutler, and had continued there ever
since. Gradually his sutler-store had grown to be a trade-store with
the Indians, and passing emigrants; and in 1866 he reported his sales
at $100,000 per year, and increasing. He was a shrewd, intelligent man,
with a fine library and the best eastern newspapers, who had seen a
vast deal of life in many phases on both sides of the continent, and
his hospitality was open-handed and generous even for a Virginian.
We left Fort Bridger October 12th, at 10 P. M., in the midst of gusty
winds that soon turned to rain, and reached Salt Lake City the next
night about midnight; distance 120 miles. We halted for breakfast at
the head of Echo Cañon, and were at a loss to account for the air
of neatness and refinement, that pervaded the rude station, until
we noticed Scott's Marmion and the Bible lying on a side shelf. Two
nice looking ladies waited on the table, and it is safe to conclude
a taste for literature and religion will keep people civilized and
refined almost anywhere. Echo Cañon itself proved to be a narrow
rocky defile, some thirty miles long through the heart of the
mountains there, with a little brawling creek flowing through it.
Its red sandstone walls mostly tower above you for several hundred
feet, and in places quite overhang the road. Here in 1857-8, Brigham
Young made his famous stand against the United States, and flooded
the cañon by damming the creek at various points. The remains of
his dam, and of various rude fortifications, were still perceptible;
but Judge Carter reported them all of small account, as Johnston's
engineers knew of at least two other passes, by either of which they
could have flanked the Mormon position, and so entered the valley. He
said, our troops should have marched at once on Salt Lake, without
halting at Bridger as they did; but the Mormons showed fight, and
our commanding officer--not liking the looks of things--called a
council of war, after which, of course, we did nothing. Councils of
war, it is well-nigh settled, never do. Clive, that brave soldier of
his time, never held a council of war but once, and then made his
fortune by disregarding its decision. When Sidney Johnston assumed
command, late in the fall of 1857, he had no orders to advance; and,
therefore, inferred he was wanted merely to maintain the _status
quo_! Accordingly he made haste to do nothing, and soon after went
into winter-quarters. Meanwhile, Brigham--unmolested by our show
of force--waxed fat and kicked. The next spring a compromise was
effected, which like most other "compromises" decided nothing, and
left the "saints" as saucy as ever. Judge C. knew all the men of that
troubled period well, especially Army people; and said he had long
thought, that the reason why the troops were not ordered forward was,
because Davis, Floyd, & Co., were already looking ahead to secession
in the near future, and did not care to establish _coercion_ as a
precedent. They feared such a precedent might be quoted against their
own "sovereign" States, in such a contingency, and so managed to
have the Army instructed How _not_ to do it, until Brigham found a
convenient loop-hole, and crept out of the scrape himself. Verily,
the ways of politicians are "past finding out!"
Past Echo Cañon, we struck Weber Valley, and here found ourselves
at last thoroughly among the Mormons. Fine little farms dotted the
valley everywhere, and the settlements indeed were so numerous, that
much of the valley resembled rather a scattered village. The little
Weber River passes down the valley, on its way to Great Salt Lake,
and its waters had everywhere been diverted, and made to irrigate
nearly every possible acre of ground. Fine crops of barley, oats,
wheat, potatoes, etc., appeared to have been gathered, and cattle
and sheep were grazing on all sides. The people looked like a hardy,
industrious, thrifty race, well fitted for their stern struggle with
the wilderness. Everybody was apparently well-fed and well-clad,
though the women had a worn and tired look, as if they led a dull
life and lacked sympathy. Children of all ages and sizes flocked
about the gates and crowded the doorway, and to all appearances they
were about the same frolicking youngsters that we have east, though
they seemed less watched and cared for. Near the head of the valley,
we saw several coal-drifts that had already been worked considerably,
and were told that these mines supplied all the coal then used in
Utah, though it was thought coal would soon be found elsewhere.
It was of a soft bituminous character, far from first-class, but
nevertheless invaluable in the absence of something better.
Just at dark, we found ourselves at the head of Parley's Cañon, and
still several miles distant from Salt Lake City. Snow-flakes had
sifted lazily downward all day, but at night-fall they changed to
sleet, which thickened presently into a regular snow-storm, and soon
the roads usually so good became heavy and slushy. In many places
the track was merely a roadway, quarried out of the rocky bluffs,
with a swollen and angry rivulet below; and as we wound cautiously
along this, both the coach and horses were constantly slipping
and sliding. Only a week before, in a similar snow-storm, the
stage-horses lost their foot-hold here, and a crowded coach--team
and all--went crashing down into the creek below. I had no fancy for
this sort of an experience; but when, soon after dark, we saw the
driver light up his side-lamps for the first time since leaving the
Missouri, I concluded that our chances for an "upset" at last were
perhaps improving. L. got nervous, and being somewhat mathematical
in his turn of mind, fell to calculating how far it was down to
the water and rocks, and what would be the probable results of
plunging down there quite miscellaneously. But I was half sick and
thoroughly tired out--in that worn and jaded condition, where a man
becomes fairly indifferent as to what may happen--and at length,
as L. averred, went soundly to sleep, though I had no recollection
afterwards of anything but dozing. I only know that when the horses
again struck a trot, as we began to descend the cañon westward, I
roused up shivering with cold; and was only too glad, when far away
in the distance our driver pointed out the lights of Salt Lake City,
twinkling through the darkness. It seemed then, as if the coach
never would get there. But at last the farms thickened into suburbs,
and the houses into streets, and a little before midnight we drew
up and halted at the Salt-Lake House. A smart-looking colored man,
acting both as porter and night-clerk, showed us to a comfortable
room, and I need scarcely say we retired at once. What a luxury it
was, to get between clean sheets once more, and stretch our cramped
up limbs wholly out again, _ad libitum_! No one but an Overland
stage-passenger can fully appreciate the downy comfort of a bed, or
truly sleep almost the sleep that knows no waking. How we _did_ sleep
and stretch ourselves, and stretch ourselves and sleep that night!
It seemed almost as if to sleep was the chief end of life, and we
made the most of our pillows accordingly.