glorious cold. In this dry air it is quite warm if there are only a
few degrees of frost. The sun does not rise in Georgetown till eleven
now; I doubt if it rises there at all in the winter! After four hours'
fearful bouncing, the baggage car again received us, but this time the
conductor, remarking that he supposed I was just traveling to see the
country, gave me his chair and put it on the platform, so that I had an
excellent view of that truly sublime canyon. For economy I dined in a
restaurant in Golden City, and at three remounted my trusty Birdie,
intending to arrive here that night. The adventure I met with is
almost too silly to tell.
When I left Golden City it was a brilliant summer afternoon, and not
too hot. They could not give any directions at the stable, and told me
to go out on the Denver track till I met some one who could direct me,
which started me off wrong from the first. After riding about two
miles I met a man who told me I was all wrong, and directed me across
the prairie till I met another, who gave me so many directions that I
forgot them, and was irretrievably lost. The afterglow, seen to
perfection on the open plain, was wonderful. Just as it grew dark I
rode after a teamster who said I was then four miles farther from
Boulder than when I left Golden, and directed me to a house seven miles
off. I suppose he thought I should know, for he told me to cross the
prairie till I came to a place where three tracks are seen, and there
to take the best-traveled one, steering all the time by the north star.
His directions did bring me to tracks, but it was then so dark that I
could see nothing, and soon became so dark that I could not even see
Birdie's ears, and was lost and benighted. I rode on, hour after hour,
in the darkness and solitude, the prairie all round and a firmament of
frosty stars overhead. The prairie wolf howled now and then, and
occasionally the lowing of cattle gave me hope of human proximity. But
there was nothing but the lone wild plain. You can hardly imagine the
longing to see a light, to hear a voice, the intensely eerie feeling of
being alone in that vast solitude. It was freezing very sharply and
was very cold, and I was making up my mind to steer all night for the
pole-star, much fearing that I should be brought up by one of the
affluents of the Platte, or that Birdie would tire, when I heard the
undertoned bellowing of a bull, which, from the snorting rooting up of
earth, seemed to be disputing the right of way, and the pony was afraid
to pass. While she was scuffling about, I heard a dog bark and a man
swear; then I saw a light, and in another minute found myself at a
large house, where I knew the people, only eleven miles from Denver!
It was nearly midnight, and light, warmth, and a good bed were truly
welcome.
You can form no idea of what the glory on the Plains is just before
sunrise. Like the afterglow, for a great height above the horizon
there is a shaded band of the most intense and glowing orange, while
the mountains which reflect the yet unrisen sun have the purple light
of amethysts. I left early, but soon lost the track and was lost; but
knowing that a sublime gash in the mountains was Bear Canyon, quite
near Boulder, I struck across the prairie for it, and then found the
Boulder track. "The best-laid schemes of men and mice gang aft agley,"
and my exploits came to an untimely end to-day. On arriving here,
instead of going into the mountains, I was obliged to go to bed in
consequence of vertigo, headache, and faintness, produced by the
intense heat of the sun. In all that weary land there was no "shadow
of a great rock" under which to rest. The gravelly, baked soil
reflected the fiery sun, and it was nearly maddening to look up at the
cool blue of the mountains, with their stretches of pines and their
deep indigo shadows. Boulder is a hideous collection of frame houses
on the burning plain, but it aspires to be a "city" in virtue of being
a "distributing point" for the settlements up the Boulder Canyon, and
of the discovery of a coal seam.
LONGMOUNT, November.
I got up very early this morning, and on a hired horse went nine miles
up the Boulder Canyon, which is much extolled, but I was greatly
disappointed with everything except its superb wagon road, and much
disgusted with the laziness of the horse. A ride of fifteen miles
across the prairie brought me here early in the afternoon, but of the
budget of letters which I expected there is not one. Birdie looks in
such capital condition that my host here can hardly believe that she
has traveled over 500 miles. I am feeling "the pinch of poverty"
rather severely. When I have paid my bill here I shall have exactly
twenty-six cents left. Evans was quite unable to pay the hundred
dollars which he owed me, and, to save themselves, the Denver banks,
though they remain open, have suspended payment, and would not cash my
circular notes. The financial straits are very serious, and the
unreasoning panic which has set in makes them worse. The present state
of matters is--nobody has any money, so nothing is worth anything. The
result to me is that, nolens volens, I must go up to Estes Park, where
I can live without ready money, and remain there till things change for
the better. It does not seem a very hard fate! Long's Peak rises in
purple gloom, and I long for the cool air and unfettered life of the
solitary blue hollow at its base.
ESTES PARK, November 20.
Would that three notes of admiration were all I need give to my grand,
solitary, uplifted, sublime, remote, beast-haunted lair, which seems
more indescribable than ever; but you will wish to know how I have
sped, and I wish you to know my present singular circumstances. I left
Longmount at eight on Saturday morning, rather heavily loaded, for in
addition to my own luggage I was asked to carry the mail-bag, which was
heavy with newspapers. Edwards, with his wife and family, were still
believed to be here. A heavy snow-storm was expected, and all the
sky--that vast dome which spans the Plains--was overcast; but over the
mountains it was a deep, still, sad blue, into which snowy peaks rose
sunlighted. It was a lonely, mournful-looking morning, but when I
reached the beautiful canyon of the St. Vrain, the sad blue became
brilliant, and the sun warm and scintillating. Ah, how beautiful and
incomparable the ride up here is, infinitely more beautiful than the
much-vaunted parts I have seen elsewhere.
There is, first, this beautiful hill-girdled valley of fair savannas,
through which the bright St. Vrain curves in and out amidst a tangle of
cotton-wood and withered clematis and Virginia creeper, which two
months ago made the valley gay with their scarlet and gold. Then the
canyon, with its fantastically-stained walls; then the long ascent
through sweeping foot hills to the gates of rock at a height of 9,000
feet; then the wildest and most wonderful scenery for twenty miles, in
which you cross thirteen ranges from 9,000 to 11,000 feet high, pass
through countless canyons and gulches, cross thirteen dark fords, and
finally descend, through M'Ginn's Gulch, upon this, the gem of the
Rocky Mountains. It was a weird ride. I got on very slowly. The road
is a hard one for any horse, specially for a heavily-loaded one, and at
the end of several weeks of severe travel. When I had ridden fifteen
miles I stopped at the ranch where people usually get food, but it was
empty, and the next was also deserted. So I was compelled to go to the
last house, where two young men are "baching."
There I had to decide between getting a meal for myself or a feed for
the pony; but the young man, on hearing of my sore poverty, trusted me
"till next time." His house, for order and neatness, and a sort of
sprightliness of cleanliness--the comfort of cleanliness without its
severity--is a pattern to all women, while the clear eyes and manly
self-respect which the habit of total abstinence gives in this country
are a pattern to all men. He cooked me a splendid dinner, with good
tea. After dinner I opened the mail-bag, and was delighted to find an
accumulation of letters from you; but I sat much too long there,
forgetting that I had twenty miles to ride, which could hardly be done
in less than six hours. It was then brilliant. I had not realized the
magnificence of that ride when I took it before, but the pony was
tired, and I could not hurry her, and the distance seemed interminable,
as after every range I crossed another range. Then came a region of
deep, dark, densely-wooded gulches, only a few feet wide, and many
fords, and from their cold depths I saw the last sunlight fade from the
brows of precipices 4,000 feet high. It was eerie, as darkness came
on, to wind in and out in the pine-shadowed gloom, sometimes on ice,
sometimes in snow, at the bottom of these tremendous chasms. Wolves
howled in all directions. This is said to denote the approach of a
storm. During this twenty-mile ride I met a hunter with an elk packed
on his horse, and he told me not only that the Edwardses were at the
cabin yesterday, but that they were going to remain for two weeks
longer, no matter how uncongenial. The ride did seem endless after
darkness came on. Finally the last huge range was conquered, the last
deep chasm passed, and with an eeriness which craved for human
companionship, I rode up to "Mountain Jim's" den, but no light shone
through the chinks, and all was silent. So I rode tediously down
M'Ginn's Gulch, which was full of crackings and other strange mountain
noises, and was pitch dark, though the stars were bright overhead.
Soon I heard the welcome sound of a barking dog. I supposed it to
denote strange hunters, but calling "Ring" at a venture, the noble
dog's large paws and grand head were in a moment on my saddle, and he
greeted me with all those inarticulate but perfectly comprehensible
noises with which dogs welcome their human friends. Of the two men on
horses who accompanied him, one was his master, as I knew by the
musical voice and grace of manner, but it was too dark to see anyone,
though he struck a light to show me the valuable furs with which one of
the horses was loaded. The desperado was heartily glad to see me, and
sending the man and fur-laden horse on to his cabin, he turned with me
to Evans's; and as the cold was very severe, and Birdie was very tired,
we dismounted and walked the remaining three miles. All my visions of
a comfortable reception and good meal after my long ride vanished with
his first words. The Edwardses had left for the winter on the previous
morning, but had not passed through Longmount; the cabin was
dismantled, the stores were low, and two young men, Mr. Kavan, a miner,
and Mr. Buchan, whom I was slightly acquainted with before, were
"baching" there to look after the stock until Evans, who was daily
expected, returned. The other settler and his wife had left the park,
so there was not a woman within twenty-five miles. A fierce wind had
arisen, and the cold was awful, which seemed to make matters darker. I
did not care in the least about myself. I could rough it, and enjoy
doing so, but I was very sorry for the young men, who, I knew, would be
much embarrassed by the sudden appearance of a lady for an indefinite
time. But the difficulty had to be faced, and I walked in and took
them by surprise as they were sitting smoking by the fire in the living
room, which was dismantled, unswept, and wretched looking.
The young men did not show any annoyance, but exerted themselves to
prepare a meal, and courteously made Jim share it. After he had gone,
I boldly confessed my impecunious circumstances, and told them that I
must stay there till things changed, that I hoped not to inconvenience
them in any way, and that by dividing the work among us they would be
free to be out hunting. So we agreed to make the best of it. (Our
arrangements, which we supposed would last only two or three days,
extended over nearly a month. Nothing could exceed the courtesy and
good feeling which these young men showed. It was a very pleasant time
on the whole and when we separated they told me that though they were
much "taken aback" at first, they felt at last that we could get on in
the same way for a year, in which I cordially agreed.) Sundry practical
difficulties had to be faced and overcome. There was one of the common
spring mattresses of the country in the little room which opened from
the living room, but nothing upon it. This was remedied by making a
large bag and filling it with hay. Then there were neither sheets,
towels, nor table-clothes. This was irremediable, and I never missed
the first or last. Candles were another loss, and we had only one
paraffin lamp. I slept all night in spite of a gale which blew all
Sunday and into Monday afternoon, threatening to lift the cabin from
the ground, and actually removing part of the roof from the little room
between the kitchen and living room, in which we used to dine. Sunday
was brilliant, but nearly a hurricane, and I dared not stir outside the
cabin. The parlor was two inches deep in the mud from the roof. We
nominally divide the cooking. Mr. Kavan makes the best bread I ever
ate; they bring in wood and water, and wash the supper things, and I
"do" my room and the parlor, wash the breakfast things, and number of
etceteras. My room is easily "done," but the parlor is a never-ending
business. I have swept shovelfuls of mud out of it three times to-day.
There is nothing to dust it with but a buffalo's tail, and every now
and then a gust descends the open chimney and drives the wood ashes all
over the room. However, I have found an old shawl which answers for a
table-cloth, and have made our "parlor" look a little more habitable.
Jim came in yesterday in a silent mood, and sat looking vacantly into
the fire. The young men said that this mood was the usual precursor of
an "ugly fit."
Food is a great difficulty. Of thirty milch cows only one is left, and
she does not give milk enough for us to drink. The only meat is some
pickled pork, very salt and hard, which I cannot eat, and the hens lay
less than one egg a day. Yesterday morning I made some rolls, and made
the last bread into a bread-and-butter pudding, which we all enjoyed.
To-day I found part of a leg of beef hanging in the wagon shed, and we
were elated with the prospect of fresh meat, but on cutting into it we
found it green and uneatable. Had it not been for some tea which was
bestowed upon me at the inn at Longmount we should have had none. In
this superb air and physically active life I can eat everything but
pickled pork. We breakfast about nine, dine at two, and have supper at
seven, but our MENU never varies.
To-day I have been all alone in the park, as the men left to hunt elk
after breakfast, after bringing in wood and water. The sky is
brilliant and the light intense, or else the solitude would be
oppressive. I keep two horses in the corral so as to be able to
explore, but except Birdie, who is turned out, none of the animals are
worth much now from want of shoes, and tender feet.
Letter XIV
A dismal ride--A desperado's tale--"Lost! Lost! Lost!"--Winter
glories--Solitude--Hard times--Intense cold--A pack of wolves--The
beaver dams--Ghastly scenes--Venison steaks--Our evenings.
ESTES PARK.
I must attempt to put down the trifling events of each day just as they
occur. The second time that I was left alone Mr. Nugent came in
looking very black, and asked me to ride with him to see the beaver
dams on the Black Canyon. No more whistling or singing, or talking to
his beautiful mare, or sparkling repartee.
His mood was as dark as the sky overhead, which was black with an
impending snowstorm. He was quite silent, struck his horse often,
started off on a furious gallop, and then throwing his mare on her
haunches close to me, said, "You're the first man or woman who's
treated me like a human being for many a year." So he said in this
dark mood, but Mr. and Mrs. Dewy, who took a very deep interest in his
welfare, always treated him as a rational, intelligent gentleman, and
in his better moments he spoke of them with the warmest appreciation.
"If you want to know," he continued, "how nearly a man can become a
devil, I'll tell you now." There was no choice, and we rode up the
canyon, and I listened to one of the darkest tales of ruin I have ever
heard or read.
Its early features were very simple. His father was a British officer
quartered at Montreal, of a good old Irish family. From his account he
was an ungovernable boy, imperfectly educated, and tyrannizing over a
loving but weak mother. When seventeen years old he saw a young girl
at church whose appearance he described as being of angelic beauty, and
fell in love with her with all the intensity of an uncontrolled nature.
He saw her three times, but scarcely spoke to her. On his mother
opposing his wish and treating it as a boyish folly, he took to drink
"to spite her," and almost as soon as he was eighteen, maddened by the
girl's death, he ran away from home, entered the service of the
Hudson's Bay Company, and remained in it for several years, only
leaving it because he found even that lawless life too strict for him.
Then, being as I suppose about twenty-seven, he entered the service of
the United States Government, and became one of the famous Indian
scouts of the Plains, distinguishing himself by some of the most daring
deeds on record, and some of the bloodiest crimes. Some of these tales
I have heard before, but never so terribly told. Years must have
passed in that service, till he became a character known through all
the West, and much dreaded for his readiness to take offence, and his
equal readiness with his revolver. Vain, even in his dark mood, he
told me that he was idolized by women, and that in his worst hours he
was always chivalrous to good women. He described himself as riding
through camps in his scout's dress with a red scarf round his waist,
and sixteen golden curls, eighteen inches long, hanging over his
shoulders. The handsome, even superbly handsome, side of his face was
towards me as he spoke. As a scout and as an armed escort of emigrant
parties he was evidently implicated in all the blood and broil of a
lawless region and period, and went from bad to worse, varying his life
by drunken sprees, which brought nothing but violence and loss.
The narrative seemed to lack some link, for I next found him on a
homestead in Missouri, from whence he came to Colorado a few years ago.
There, again, something was dropped out, but I suspect, and not without
reason, that he joined one or more of those gangs of "border ruffians"
which for so long raided through Kansas, perpetrating such massacres
and outrages as that of the Marais du Cygne. His fame for violence and
ruffianism preceded him into Colorado, where his knowledge of and love
of the mountains have earned him the sobriquet he now bears. He has a
squatter's claim and forty head of cattle, and is a successful trapper
besides, but envy and vindictiveness are raging within him. He gets
money, goes to Denver, and spends large sums in the maddest
dissipation, making himself a terror, and going beyond even such
desperadoes as "Texas Jack" and "Wild Bill"; and when the money is done
returns to his mountain den, full of hatred and self-scorn, till the
next time. Of course I cannot give details.
The story took three hours to tell, and was crowded with terrific
illustrations of a desperado's career, told with a rush of wild
eloquence that was truly thrilling.
When the snow, which for some time had been falling, compelled him to
break off and guide me to a sheltered place from which I could make my
own way back again, he stopped his horse and said, "Now you see a man
who has made a devil of himself! Lost! Lost! Lost! I believe in
God. I've given Him no choice but to put me with 'the devil and his
angel.' I'm afraid to die. You've stirred the better nature in me too
late. I can't change. If ever a man were a slave, I am. Don't speak
to me of repentance and reformation. I can't reform. Your voice
reminded me of -----." Then in feverish tones, "How dare you ride with
me? You won't speak to me again, will you?" He made me promise to
keep one or two things secret whether he were living or dead, and I
promised, for I had no choice; but they come between me and the
sunshine sometimes, and I wake at night to think of them. I wish I had
been spared the regret and excitement of that afternoon. A less
ungovernable nature would never have spoken as he did, nor told me what
he did; but his proud, fierce soul all poured itself out then, with
hatred and self-loathing, blood on his hands and murder in his heart,
though even then he could not be altogether other than a gentleman, or
altogether divest himself of fascination, even when so tempestuously
revealing the darkest points of his character. My soul dissolved in
pity for his dark, lost, self-ruined life, as he left me and turned
away in the blinding storm to the Snowy Range, where he said he was
going to camp out for a fortnight; a man of great abilities, real
genius, singular gifts, and with all the chances in life which other
men have had. How far more terrible than the "Actum est: periisti" of
Cowper is his exclamation, "Lost! Lost! Lost!"
The storm was very severe, and the landmarks being blotted out, I lost
my way in the snow, and when I reached the cabin after dark I found it
still empty, for the two hunters, on returning, finding that I had gone
out, had gone in search of me. The snow cleared off late, and intense
frost set in. My room is nearly the open air, being built of unchinked
logs, and, as in the open air, one requires to sleep with the head
buried in blankets, or the eyelids and breath freeze. The sunshine has
been brilliant to-day. I took a most beautiful ride to Black Canyon to
look for the horses. Every day some new beauty, or effect of snow and
light, is to be seen. Nothing that I have seen in Colorado compares
with Estes Park; and now that the weather is magnificent, and the
mountain tops above the pine woods are pure white, there is nothing of
beauty or grandeur for which the heart can wish that is not here; and
it is health giving, with pure air, pure water, and absolute dryness.
But there is something very solemn, at times almost overwhelming, in
the winter solitude. I have never experienced anything like it even
when I lived on the slopes of Hualalai. When the men are out hunting I
know not where, or at night, when storms sweep down from Long's Peak,
and the air is full of stinging, tempest-driven snow, and there is
barely a probability of any one coming, or of my communication with the
world at all, then the stupendous mountain ranges which lie between us
and the Plains grow in height till they become impassable barriers, and
the bridgeless rivers grow in depth, and I wonder if all my life is to
be spent here in washing and sweeping and baking.
To-day has been one of manual labor. We did not breakfast till 9:30,
then the men went out, and I never sat down till two. I cleaned the
living room and the kitchen, swept a path through the rubbish in the
passage room, washed up, made and baked a batch of rolls and four
pounds of sweet biscuits, cleaned some tins and pans, washed some
clothes, and gave things generally a "redding up." There is a little
thick buttermilk, fully six weeks old, at the bottom of a churn, which
I use for raising the rolls; but Mr. Kavan, who makes "lovely" bread,
puts some flour and water to turn sour near the stove, and this
succeeds admirably.