heroic characters as dwarf all human graving, and set on the pinnacle of
the world as though in sign of possession forever. The Jesuits went hand
in hand with the _Chevalier Dubois_, proclaiming Christian gospel in the
northern forests; the Puritan brought his Testament to New England, the
Spanish banners of victory on the golden shores of the Pacific were
upheld by the fiery zeal of the friars of San Francisco; the frozen
Alaskan cliffs resounded to the chanting of the monks of St. Peter and
St. Paul. On every side the virgin continent was taken in the name of
Christ, and with all the _eclat_ of religious conquest. Yet from ages
unnumbered before any of them, centuries oblivious in the mystery of
past time, the Cross had been planted here. As a prophecy during
unmeasured generations, as a sign of glorious fulfillment during
nineteen centuries, from always and to eternity a reminder of our fealty
to Heaven, this divine seal has been set upon our proudest eminence.
What matters it whether we write "God" in the Constitution of the United
States, when here in the sight of all men is inscribed this marvelous
testimony to his sovereignty! Shining grandly out of the pure ether, and
above all turbulence of earthly clouds, it says: Humble thyself, O man!
Measure thy fiery works at their true insignificance. Uncover thy head
and acknowledge thy weakness. Forget not, that as high above thy gilded
spires gleams the splendor of this ever-living Cross, so are My thoughts
above thy thoughts, and My ways above thy ways.
Red Cliff is a bright, fresh little camp, made of sweet-smelling, new
lumber just out of the saw mill; it looks _spruce_ in a most literal
sense. Perhaps a thousand or fifteen hundred persons live in and about
there, though you will not see a quarter of that number except on
Saturday nights and Sundays. The hotel where I stopped was made of
canvas, but they gave me a good meal, and when bed-time came took me off
to another tent roofed shanty, which I occupied all to myself,
surrounded by feminine finery and knicknacks, from tooth-powder and
hair-pins to ruffled skirts and a sewing stand; however, the
window-curtains consisted of two very "loud" copies of the _Police
Gazette_, so I locked my door with extra care for fear the fair owners
might unexpectedly return.
The mines in the neighborhood of Red Cliff--if you saw the toppling
piles of rust-stained quartzite which hung over the gulch, you would not
need to ask why the name was given--are of varied character, and of wide
reputation.
[Illustration: MARSHALL PASS--WESTERN SLOPE.]
Discovered only in 1878, it was at once seen that here in Battle
mountain were enormous deposits of carbonate of lead carrying silver,
which was so free from any refractory elements, like zinc or antimony,
and so abundant in lead, that they were unexcelled in the world for the
purposes of smelting. It has always been a drawback in the Leadville
ores that they contained lead in too small a proportion to the silver,
copper and other constituents, to make straight smelting feasible; that
is it is necessary to mix into each charge an addition of
"flux,"--chiefly lead, in order properly to perform the operation of
smelting. This Red Cliff ore, however, is so rich in lead, frequently
running sixty, seventy or eighty per cent., that no accessory is
needful, and it "smelts itself," as they say. In consequence, the
carbonates of this district are in great demand at Leadville, and really
bring more than their intrinsic value, since the smelters are anxious to
get them to mix with the more refractory home product, and so get enough
lead in the charge to secure the silver of both kinds of ore. Most of
the ores from this camp, therefore, are shipped to Leadville; and not
only that, but a large quantity of the bullion made here is sold there
also and re-melted in order to furnish the necessary lead.
Here, as well as further down the river, some streaks of gold-quartz are
found, and a stamp mill is about to be erected. Fissure veins of silver
ore are also known and worked somewhat, and much is expected of this
branch of production in future. But thus far the chief reliance of the
district is placed upon the carbonate ores of silver. You will find all
the hills and granite ledges and quartzite overflows about here punched
full of prospect-pits; but it is only on the southern slope of Battle
mountain that mines worth mention have been developed as yet. "The whole
interior of Battle mountain," one who knew said to me, "seems to be one
bed of carbonate of lead and silver." Then he took me into the sheds of
his smelter and showed me bin after bin full of brick-red, and rust
brown and dark and bright yellow earth, which lay in crumbling pieces
like dried mud, or had fallen into mere sand, and told me that that was
the general style of the ore. I lifted a handful and it was as heavy as
shot: no doubt about that being lead. This stuff is almost too easy to
mine; it is like digging into a sand bank, and every foot of the way
must be carefully protected by a timber tunnel to prevent its caving in.
A man can pull down three or four tons a day, to ship, and it is only
requisite to wheel it to the brow of the steep hill-side at the mouth of
the mine, and hurl it down a shute a thousand feet or so to the railway
track in the cañon.
This cañon of the Eagle, through which the railway runs, offers one of
the keenest pleasures in Colorado to the lover of scenery, and one of
the points of pilgrimage to the disciple of trout-fishing. The limpid
green waters of the pretty river, fed, just here, by Turkey creek
bringing the melted snows of the main range, and by the Homestake coming
from the foot of the Holy Cross, dash with laughter and gurgle through a
narrow defile of gayly colored rocks and thence pour out to rest awhile
in the parks before its struggle with Elbow Cañon down below. From here
to the mouth of the river, it is between fifty and sixty miles according
to the line of the railway, which will, some day, closely follow its
banks down the Grand to Grand Junction. The elevation is uniformly so
great, even after you get fairly out of the mountains, that agriculture
is hopeless, excepting the cultivation of some of the hardiest
vegetables, like turnips, and perhaps risky crops of oats and barley.
At the mouth of the Roaring Fork of the Grand (which is just below where
the Eagle debouches), some remarkable mineral springs bubble out of the
ground. These have long been held in high esteem by the Indians and
hunters, and now a little settlement has grown up around them called
Glenwood. A hotel, bath houses and other facilities for a pleasant and
healthful time have been erected, and the place is likely to prove a
favorite summer resort. Many men are living and digging upon the
headwaters of Brush creek, Gypsum creek, and other tributaries. Just
below, where the Eagle river discharges itself, the Grand receives the
Roaring Fork and various other pretty large tributaries, so that it
becomes a noble stream by the time the great Gunnison reinforces it, and
it mingles its waters with the Green river, which has come all the way
from the National Yellowstone Park, to make the mighty Rio Colorado.
Hither will come the painters, who need not go to Switzerland for snowy
bergs, nor to Scotland for lochs, nor to Norway for splendid forests of
pine and spruce. No mountains I know of abound in more that is
picturesque; but it is always some phase of the _grand_ rather than the
_pretty_. The scenery is wild and savage and primeval, being the stock
of which beautiful landscapes are made, rather than the culture that
gentler airs and more temperate winds bring upon the face of the earth
nearer the sea and the equator. The naturalist also may come here with
profit. The fauna and flora are boreal and western. The geologist and
mineralogist and meteorologist will find much here to interest them, and
clear up doubtful points.
This splendid, hilly, well-timbered, well-pastured, well-watered western
edge of the state, is the grandest hunting-ground in the United States,
and it will be long before the bears and mountain lions and wild cats;
the wolves and foxes; the mountain-sheep, the elk, the two deers and the
antelope, are driven from its shady courts and disappear from the wide
and sunny ranges. Long let us say, in fond hope, if not in serious
expectation, that _never_ shall the dread word _exterminated_ be written
after the name of any of the wild animals whose utility as game or for
beauty of form makes them of interest to us.
Another excursion from Leadville was out on the stub of a line to be
extended down the Blue river toward Middle Park.
To reach the valley of Blue river "the range" must, of course, be
crossed. The line from Leadville follows up the Arkansas and reveals to
us how small are the beginnings of great things in the way of
water-courses; how a miserable, shallow, wiggling little runlet, which
you can dam with a couple of shovels of mud and stand astride of like
another Colossus of Rhodes, may push its way along, undermining what it
cannot overthrow; sliding around the obstacle that deemed itself
impassable; losing itself in willowy bogs, tumbling headlong over the
error of a precipice or getting heedlessly entrapped in a confined
cañon; escaping down a gorge with indescribable turmoil, and always
growing bigger, bigger, broader and stronger, deeper and more dignified;
till it can leave the mountains and strike boldly across a thousand
miles of untracked plain to "fling its proud heart into the sea." Hark!
what does it prattle up here where we can leap its ripplings, and the
red willows tangle their blossoms and shade it from side to side?--
"Clear and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing shallow and dreaming pool,
Cool and clear, cool and clear,
By shining shingle and foaming weir."
[Illustration: CRESTED BUTTE MOUNTAIN AND LAKE.]
Listen again below, where it rushes triumphant from the adamantine gates
that sought to imprison it:--
"Strong and free, strong and free,
The flood gates are open away to the sea;
Free and strong, free and strong,
Claiming my streams as I hurry along,
To the golden sands and the leaping bar
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar."
Almost in the very springs of the river, where an amphitheatre of gray
quartzite peaks stand like stiffened silver-gray curtains between the
Atlantic and the Pacific, we curl round a perfect shepherd's crook of a
curve, and then climb its straight staff to the summit of
Fremont's,--the highest railway pass in the world. The pathway is so
hidden in great woods, and the grim giants of the Mosquito range are
still so inaccessibly far above you, even when you have reached the
sterile _oberland_, above the trees, that you hardly realize the fact
that you are 11,540 feet--considerably over two vertical miles--above
the sea.
Once more on the Pacific slope, with the crossing of this range, we see
the first trickling of Ten-Mile creek, and enter the edge of one of the
famous mining districts of the state, catching a sidelong glimpse of the
Holy Cross as we descend.
"Although its now well-known silver mines," says a recent historical
account, "are of recent date, the district is not a new one, having been
run over by gold hunters in the 'flush times' of California gulch,
Buckskin Joe and other famous gold-camps of early days. Gold was found
in the bed of Ten-Mile creek, and in the connecting gulches, ... among
them McNulty's gulch, said to have yielded more gold in proportion to
its size than any other workings in the state, and many fine nuggets of
unusual size were taken from it.... The discovery in 1878, of the famous
Robinson group of mines, followed, by the White Quail and Wheel of
Fortune discoveries, attracted large numbers of prospectors to the new
camp, and in spite of the ten feet of snow that covered the ground
during the winter of 1878-'79 locations were made, and shafts and
tunnels begun in every direction. During the winter the town of
Carbonateville was settled, and for a time promised to become a thriving
camp. On the 8th of February, the town of Kokomo, which, with its
younger rival, Robinson, is now a prosperous and growing mining camp,
with two smelters in operation, was located. In the spring of 1880
Robinson's camp began to build up rapidly, under the support of the
great Robinson mines, and the fostering care of the late Lieutenant
Governor Robinson, and soon became a formidable rival to Kokomo. The
many discoveries made during the spring and summer of 1880, brought the
district into a prominence second only to that of Leadville, and a large
amount of capital was invested in the development of its many promising
mines and prospects. Two smelters were erected at Kokomo, and one near
the old town of Carbonateville, while extensive works, consisting of
furnaces, roasters, etc., were put up at Robinson to work the ores of
the Robinson mine. A railroad to connect the district with Leadville on
the south and Georgetown on the east, was projected, and partially
graded during the summer, but was finally absorbed by the enterprising
managers of the Denver and Rio Grande Company, who, with a watchful eye
for the future, began the construction, under the name of Blue River
extension of the Denver and Rio Grande, of a road, which in spite of
the many and great difficulties encountered, was completed to Robinson
on the 1st of January, 1881. Much of the grading and most of the
track-laying were done under a heavy fall of snow, the range being
crossed in midwinter, affording a striking instance of the energy and
contempt of obstacles characteristic of Western railroad builders."
[Illustration: RUBY FALLS.]
The Robinson mines alluded to, now abandoned so far as productive work
is concerned, and generally considered a failure, were called the best
mining property in the state only a year ago. They were discovered in
1878, the ore proving to be chiefly galena and iron, with large pockets
of rich oxidized ore,--the "mud carbonates" so-called. A year later this
mine passed into the possession of a stock company, headed by the late
Lieut. Governor George B. Robinson, with a capital of $10,000,000.
Extensive and thoroughly constructed tunnels, etc., were begun, which
were soon interrupted by litigations out of which grew a small war. In
the course of this Governor Robinson was accidentally shot by a guard,
in November of 1880. These troubles settled, ore began to be produced in
large quantities until the winter of 1882, when work suddenly ceased,
the stock of the company fell to nothing, and the report was given out
that the mine was a failure.
Moving on down the pleasant valley, whose level bottom is carbonate
tinted, not with ore dust, but with an almost continuous thicket of
stunted red willows, we pass the Chalk Mountain mines, the Carbonate
Hill district, Clinton gulch, where gold ore is alleged to be worth more
attention than it is receiving, and so come to Elk mountain and Kokomo,
a locality which has had a wonderful history. In the fall of 1880 she
had only the "White Quail" mine as a steady producer. A little later the
"Aftermath" group came to the front. Now probably not less than fifteen
distinct mining claims on Elk mountain are making a steady output of
ore. This ore is a hard carbonate, running about twenty-five ounces in
silver and twenty-five per cent. in lead, besides a third of an ounce in
gold, which is carefully separated at the smelter. Much of it is so
admirably constituted that it "smelts itself,"--that is, it requires
little or no addition of lead, iron and other accessories to its proper
fluxion.
We were told of alluring pictures of mountains and cañons below Kokomo;
of timber-belts and pleasant uplands; of green meadows and sparkling
streams beloved of trout and bass, and the drinking places of deer in
the twilight. But our plan would not permit us to go on to Dillon, the
present terminus, much less beyond it. Instead, we must turn back, make
a swift run down the Arkansas, and begin our exploration of the great
overland route to Utah and the Pacific coast.
I will not detain you with the account of our downward trip, but ask you
to suppose us, a few hours after our visit at Robinson and Kokomo,
snugly "at home" in the station in Poncho Springs, half a dozen miles
west of Salida.
XXIII
FROM PONCHO SPRINGS TO VILLA GROVE.
Strength to the weary,
Warmth to the cold,
Blood to the wasted,
Youth to the old;
Ah, and the rapture
Thousand-fold dearer,
Ne'er to be told:
Learn ye the secret,--
Taste ye the sweetness.
The visitor to Poncho Springs is pretty sure to get into hot water, and,
strange to say, the visitor is pretty sure to like it. There are several
reasons for this peculiarity, and among the most important is this, that
like the wind to the shorn lamb, the water is tempered. It needs to be
tempered, indeed, for when one literally gets into hot water, one does
not like to have its warmth so emphatic as to make a veal stew of the
first leg that is thrust into it. Hot springs whose temperature makes
any well-regulated thermometer's blood boil and sends the mercury up to
180° in the shade certainly needs tempering. When properly moderated,
however, one cannot fail to enjoy a bath in the soda impregnated waters
of the Poncho springs.
The village, to which the springs have given their name, is snugly
tucked away in a niche in the Arkansas valley, at the mouth of Poncho
pass. The waters of the south fork of the Arkansas river, clear as
crystal, and flowing with a foam-flecked current, race rapidly past the
town. Along the river's course the cottonwoods crowd, and to their
branches, beginning to grow bare, still cling a few trembling yellow
leaves. Beyond the river and to the south and west rise the hills, their
sides and summits covered with dark phalanxes of pines. Turning one's
back upon the town and looking toward the north and west, one sees the
snow-crowned summit of the Collegiate range, with all the differences
between Princeton and Harvard and Yale entirely eliminated by that
distance which ever adds enchantment to the view. Closer at hand, and
towering grandly into the sky, a tremendous watch-tower in the west,
stands Shavano, while lesser peaks and nameless pinnacles cluster and
crowd around. Great plains, broken by buttes, stretch away to the
northward, but mountains and foothills circle round to the east and
south and west.
[Illustration: APPROACH TO THE BLACK CAÑON.]
In this sheltered nook lies the picturesque village of Poncho Springs,
and hither do the invalids and tourists flock during the warm half of
the year to drink the medicinal waters and to bathe in the healing
springs. I strolled through the main street of the town, along which are
built substantial frame shops and hotels, and observed evidences of
stability upon every side. Poncho Springs is not the result of a
temporary craze, nor is it a railway terminus town to be torn down and
shipped forward as the road advances. There is a good agricultural
country around the village, and the Springs will be a source of
permanent prosperity. One of the most picturesque features of this
picturesque town is a residence which my traveling companions called "a
symphony in logs." The house is to the right of the main street and is
built of hewn logs, and with gables filled in with ornamental work, with
painted roof and fanciful porticos, presents a peculiarly pleasing
appearance.
Passing on through the town toward the hills and crossing the river, one
discovers a sign board, upon which it is announced that the distance to
the hot springs is three-quarters of a mile. Putting confidence in this
announcement, the visitor cheerfully advances along a good wagon road,
which soon begins to twine and twist among the hills, at times making a
grade of thirty degrees. Finally, just as one begins to lose faith in
the guide board, the trail, with an abrupt turn to the right, descends
into a gulch, and rises steeply on the other side. Clambering up this
steep, the visitor sees to the left the hotel buildings, which announce
the presence of the springs, while to the right are pitched a number of
tents, late sleeping rooms for an army of summer visitors which,
vanquished by cold breezes, has broken camp and fled.
After a bath in the conventional zinc contrivance, to which was admitted
hot and cold water through most unpoetic and sternly practical faucets,
all of which suggested "modern improvements" rather than a wonderful
natural phenomenon, I went out in search of the hot springs, quite as
much to re-establish a somewhat shaken faith in their existence as for
any other purpose. My doubts soon dissolved, for back of the hotel and
half-way up the grade of a steep hill, I came upon a little rivulet of
soda water still steaming with the heat of its parent spring. A little
further on I saw a white tumulus of volcanic formation, and scattered
over its summit oval openings in which boiled and bubbled water fresh
from Pluto's kitchen. In some of these springs the water was scalding
hot, while in others it was merely lukewarm. Springs showing such
radical differences of temperature were frequently not more than two
feet apart. There are over fifty of these springs here, and no two of
them precisely alike.
The Springs have lately passed from their former ownership into the
hands of new men, who are very enterprising. Larger buildings have been
erected, and the camp-like freedom of the place has been exchanged for
something more nearly approaching ordinary hotel life. There is room for
about 150 guests, and every requirement for the comfort of invalids. The
advertisements issued by the proprietors dwell largely upon the
similarity of these waters to those of the Arkansas Hot Springs, and
recommend them as equally curative in the special ailments that have
long made the Arkansas waters famous.
A few miles northward of Poncho Springs there is a cluster of mining
villages, of which the chief are Maysville and Monarch. They lie well
under the shadow of the mountains, and silver ore is produced steadily
in considerable quantity. These towns communicate with the outside world
by a branch line of railway which diverges at this point.
* * * * *
In the quiet of the evening, at this charming retreat--for we had few
pleasanter halting places--the Madame bethought herself (seeing the rest
of us pen and pencil in hand) that she owed a letter to her Eastern
_confidante_, and also remembered that she had promised her an account
of our youthful _chef_, with whom by this time we all felt tolerably
well acquainted. Happy accident brought this letter under my eye and I
seized the opportunity to copy it, so here it is, or at least so much of
it as relates to the boy:
"MY DEAR MRS. MCANGLE:
"I must tell you about our cook; or, as my husband would, no doubt
correct me, our _porter_. How our first boy fought and bled and died I
wrote you before, and that the last I saw of him he was being bundled
rheumatically aboard the homeward train. Well, after I had finished that
visit at Pueblo San Juan with old Santiago's wife, whom I described to
you, I went home--that is, you know, back to our train--just at evening.
As I opened the door a bright-faced boy rose to meet me, with a pair of
the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen,--just the kind of orbs young
ladies waste oceans of sentiment upon, you know, in boarding-school
days. He was, so he told me, a mixture of Kentuckian and Canadian Indian
blood. His grandmother, the only one of his family to whom he seemed to
feel any allegiance, had set him up in business as a liquor seller.
'But,' he said, 'the business was too rough for _me_, so I gave it up to
a friend and came out West.'
"He proved the direct opposite of his predecessor. While Edward could
cook, Burt could not; and while Edward had an abhorrence of water, Burt
was never so happy as when his pots, pans and kettles were all before
him and he was busy scouring. The only difficulty was, that he could not
_keep_ clean, but was for ever 'clarin' up,' during which process it
required considerable ingenuity to make one's way through the débris of
the kitchen furniture.
"It was not long before the inside of his car was covered with tin-ware
of all descriptions, pails, smoothing irons, pokers, tools,--everything
that could by any possibility be hung up. He had a passion for driving
nails, the larger the more fun apparently, for his nails mostly went
clear through the car-walls, which soon came to bristle like a newly
furnished pin-cushion.