IN COLORADO--THE PROSPECTOR LABORED AND LOOKED AWAY TO THE MOUNTAINS.
The life of a prospector is one fraught with hardships and privations
and, in locations infested by Indians, often one of peril. But in his
search for the precious metals, the hardy prospector gives but little
thought to personal danger. With his bedding, tools and provisions,
packed upon the backs of trusty little burros, he turns from the haunts
of men and plunges into the trackless wilds of the mountains. Guided
by the star of hope, he pursues his ceaseless explorations in the face
of hardships which would appall any heart not buoyed up by a keen
expectation of “striking it rich” in the near future, and springing at
one bound from poverty to wealth.
Of the great army of prospectors constantly seeking to unearth the
vast treasure hidden in the rocky breast of the mountain ranges of the
West, few attain a realization of the hopes which lead them onward, and
secure the wealth for which they so persistently toil. The instances
are very rare in which the prospector has reaped an adequate reward
for his discoveries. In the great majority of cases where really
valuable leads have been located, the discoverers, not possessing the
capital necessary to develop them, have accepted the first offer for
their purchase, and have sold for a mere song properties which have
brought millions to those who secured them. The most notable instance
in the annals of mining in the West, where fortune has rewarded the
prospector for his labors, is that in which figures Mr. N. C. Creede.
His is a life tinged with romance from boyhood to the present time.
This story may serve as an incentive to less fortunate prospectors to
push onward with renewed hopes; for in the great mountain ranges of the
West, untold riches yet lie hidden from the eye of man.
The register at the Drover’s Hotel, Pueblo, if it had a register, held
the name of N. C. Creede, some time in the fall of 1870. He marveled
much at the Mexicans. For years he had lived among the Indians and was
well acquainted with many tribes; but this dark, sad-faced man, was a
new sort of Red Skin.
Pueblo in ’70, was not the city we see there to-day. It was a dreary
cluster of adobe houses, built about a big cotton-wood tree on the
banks of a poor little river that went creeping away toward the plain,
pausing in every pool to rest, having run all the way from Tennessee
Pass over a rocky road through the Royal Gorge.
Less than thirty summers had brought their bloom to him, but he felt
old. Life was long and the seven years of hard service on the plains
had made him a sad and silent man. So much of sorrow, so much of
suffering had he seen that he seldom smiled and was much alone. Away
from his old companions, a stranger in a strange land, he looked away
to the snow-capped crest of the Sangre de Christo and said: “There will
I go and find my fortune.” Then he remembered he was poor. But he was
young, strong and willing to work, and he soon found employment with
Mr. Robert Grant, who was very kind to this lone man in many ways. For
six months he labored and looked away to the mountains, whose stony
vaults held a fortune and fame for him. In the spring of 1871, the
amateur prospector went away to the hills and spent the summer hunting,
fishing and looking for quartz. After this, life away from the grand
old mountains was not the life for him. Here was his habitation. This
should be his home.