The Prospector and The Silver Queen
[Illustration:
N. C. CREEDE. D. H. MOFFAT. CAPT. L. E. CAMPBELL.
S. T. SMITH. WALTER S. CHEESMAN.]
THE
PROSPECTOR.
STORY OF THE LIFE OF
NICHOLAS C. CREEDE.
BY
CY WARMAN.
DENVER
THE GREAT DIVIDE PUBLISHING COMPANY
1894.
COPYRIGHTED 1894, BY CY WARMAN,
DENVER, COLORADO.
PREFACE.
The purpose of these pages is to tell the simple story of the life of
an unpretentious man, and to show what the Prospector has endured and
accomplished for the West.
THE AUTHOR.
INTRODUCTORY.
The convulsion was over. An ocean had been displaced. Out of its depths
had risen a hemisphere; not a land finished for the foot of man, but
a seething, waving mass of matter, surging with the mighty forces and
energies of deep-down, eternal fires. The winds touched the angry
billows and leveled out the plains. One last, mighty throe, and up rose
the mountains of stone and silver and gold that stand to tell of that
awful hour when a continent was born. The rain and gentle dew kissed
the newborn world, and it was arrayed in a mantle of green. Forests
grew, and the Father of Waters, with all his tributaries, began his
journey in search of the Lost Sea.
That miniature race, the Cliff Dwellers, ruled the land, and in
the process of evolution, the Red Man, followed by our hero, the
Prospector, who brushed away the mysteries and disclosed the wonders,
the grandeur, the riches of the infant world. Before him the
greatest of the earth may well bow their heads in recognition of his
achievements. His monument has not been reared by the hands of those
who build to commemorate heroic deeds, but in thriving villages and
splendid cities you may read the history of his privation and hardship
and valor. He it was who first laid down his rifle to lift from
secretive sands the shining flakes of gold that planted in the hearts
of men the desire to clasp and possess the West.
It was the Prospector who, with a courage sublime, attacked the granite
forehead of the world, and proclaimed that, locked in the bosom of
the Rocky Mountains, were silver and gold, for which men strive and
die. He strode into the dark cañon where the sword of the Almighty had
cleft the mountain chain, and climbed the rugged steeps where man had
never trod before, and there, above and beyond the line that marked
the farthest reach of the Bluebell and the Pine, he slept with the
whisperings of God. His praises are unsung, but his deeds are recorded
on every page that tells of the progress and glory of the West. He has
for his home the grand mountains and verdant vales, whose wondrous
beauty is beyond compare.
From the day the earth feels the first touch of spring, when the
first flower blooms in the valley, all through the sunny summer time,
when the hills hide behind a veil of heliotrope and a world of
wild flowers; all through the hazy, dreamy autumn, this land of the
Prospector is marvelously beautiful.
When the flowers fade, and all the land begins to lose its lustre; when
the tall grass goes to seed and the winds blow brisker and colder from
the west, there comes a change to the Alpine fields, bringing with it
all the bright and beautiful colors of the butterfly, all the rays of
the rainbow, all the burning brilliancy and golden glory of a Salt Lake
sunset. Now, like a thief at night, the first frost steals from the
high hills, touching and tinting the trees, biting and blighting the
flowers and foliage. The helpless columbine and the blushing rose bend
to the passionless kisses of the cold frost, and in the ashes of other
roses their graves are made.
When the God of Day comes back, he sees upon the silent, saddened face
of Nature the ruin wrought by the touch of Time. The leaves, by his
light kept alive so long, are blushing and burning, and all the fields
are aflame, fired by the fever of death. Even the winged camp robber
screams and flies from the blasted fields where bloom has changed to
blight, and the willows weep by the icy rills. All these wondrous
changes are seen by the Prospector as he sits on a lofty mountain,
where the autumn winds sigh softly in the golden aspen, shaking the
dead leaves down among the withered grasses, gathering the perfume of
the pines, the faint odor of the dying columbine and wafting them away
to the lowlands and out o’er the waste of a sun-parched plain.
THE PROSPECTOR.
CHAPTER I.
BIRTHPLACE--SCHOOL DAYS--BOY LIFE ON THE FRONTIER--FAVORITE SPORTS.
Fifty years and one ago, near Fort Wayne, Indiana, Nicholas C. Creede,
the story of whose eventful life I shall attempt to tell you, first saw
the light of day. When but four years old his parents removed to the
Territory of Iowa, a country but thinly settled and still in the grasp
of hostile tribes whose crimes, and the crimes of their enemies, have
reddened every river from the Hudson to the Yosemite.
In those broad prairies, abounding with buffalo and wild game of every
kind, began a career which, followed for a half century, written down
in a modest way, will read like a romance.
When but a mere lad, young Creede became proficient in the use of
the rifle and made for himself a lasting reputation as a successful
hunter. He was known in the remote settlements as the crack shot of the
Territory, and being of a daring, fearless nature, spent much of his
time in the trackless forest and on the treeless plain.
As the years went by, a ceaseless tide of immigration flowed in upon
the beautiful Territory until the locality where the Creedes had their
home was thickly dotted with cabins and tents, and fields of golden
grain supplanted the verdure of the virgin sod. As the population
increased, game became scarce, and then, as the recognized leader,
young Creede, at the head of a band of boyish associates, penetrated
the wilds far to the northward in pursuit of their favorite sport.
On some of these hunting expeditions they pushed as far north as the
British line, camping where game was abundant, until they had secured
as much as their horses could carry back to the settlements.
This life in the western wilds awoke in the soul of the young hunter
a love for adventure, and his whole career since that time has been
characterized by a strong preference for the danger and excitement of
frontier life.
The facilities for acquiring an education during young Creede’s boyhood
were extremely limited. A small school-house was erected about three
miles from his home, and there the boys and girls of the settlement
flocked to study the simplest branches under a male teacher, who,
the boys said, was “too handy with the gad.” The boy scout might have
acquired more learning than he did, but he had heart trouble. A little
prairie flower bloomed in life’s way, and the young knight of the plain
paused to taste its perfume. He had no fear of man or beast, but when
he looked into the liquid, love-lit eyes of this prairie princess he
was always embarrassed. He had walked and tried to talk with her, but
the words would stick in his throat and choke him. At last he learned
to write and thought to woo her in an easier way. One day she entered
the school-room, fresh and ruddy as the rosy morn; her cherried lips
made redder by the biting breeze; and when the eyes of the lass and the
lover met, all the pent-up passion and fettered affection flashed
aflame from her heart to his, and he wrote upon her slate:
“The honey bee for honey tips
The rose upon the lea;
Then how would be your honeyed lips
If I could be the bee?”
[Illustration: N. C. CREEDE.]
The cold, calculating teacher saw the fire that flashed from her heart
to her cheek, and he stepped to her desk. She saw him coming and she
spat upon the slate and smote the sentiment at one swift sweep. Then
the teacher stormed. He said the very fact that she rubbed it out was
equal to a confession of guilt, and he “reckoned he’d haf to flog her.”
A school-mate of Creede’s told this story to me, and he said all the
big boys held their breath when the teacher went for his whip, and
young Creede sat pale and impatient. “He’ll never dare to strike that
pretty creature,” they thought; “she is so sweet, so gentle, and so
good.”
The trembling maiden was not so sure about that as she stepped to the
whipping corner, shaking like an aspen. “Swish” went the switch, the
pretty shoulders shrugged, and the young gallant saw two tears in his
sweetheart’s eyes, and in a flash he stood between her and the teacher
and said: “Strike me, you Ingin, and I’ll strike you.” “So’ll I, so’ll
I,” said a dozen voices, and the teacher laid down his hand.