We left Fort Stanton in March, prepared for a seemingly almost
interminable journey before reaching the railroad at Denver, five
hundred miles distant. Expecting to find houses in which to pass the
nights, we took no tent, and besides my trunk very little baggage.
It was entirely too early in the season for traveling to be really
comfortable, as in that exquisite mountain air mornings and evenings
are very cold.
The country between Forts Stanton and Union was simply superb in
its wild grandeur and beauty. Only the pen of an artist could have
done justice to its many charms. We stopped every night with Mexican
families, who in their simple kindness were most truly hospitable.
They made us welcome, and yet exacted no reward for the time and
attention bestowed. I always required those hours for rest and
looking after baby, who with the happy unconcern of childhood had a
way of wandering in paths unsuited to such tender feet.
In all those rough travels I never met with anything else which
gave me so much trouble as the cactus plant. Wherever we went, and
whatever else we missed, that was always present in some shape or
form. In regions where nothing else could be prevailed upon to grow,
that useful but disagreeable plant always throve; and the more
dreary, parched, and barren the soil, the more surely did the cactus
flourish and expand its bayonet-armed leaves.
If very young children were allowed to wander in the least, one could
safely depend upon finding them in the vicinity of the dangerous
cacti. During that journey our little one tripped and fell directly
upon a large plant, which, it seemed to me, had more than the usual
complement of thorns, for her little knees were fairly filled with
them, and days passed before all were picked out.
Cacti are the main feature of Western plant life. Sometimes with
fluted columns, as in Arizona, they rear their heads aloft in stately
grandeur. Again they are found in some one of the numerous less
inspiring shapes and forms the plant assumes in different parts of
the West. There must be at least fifty varieties. All are supplied
with that chief characteristic—sharp-pointed prickers—which remind
the unwary of their presence and power.
It takes a great deal of frontier experience to deal correctly
with cacti. They have many and valuable properties which the early
settlers long since discovered. The most common variety is the low,
flat-land species which requires no seeking. In the far West it
flaunts itself by all roadsides and everywhere dots the prairies. It
is very nutritive, and utilized by natives as food for cattle; they
first burn away the prickles with which it has been so bountifully
supplied by nature. Even in that land of seeming barrenness for man
and beast, much can be found to support life. The cactus supplies an
intoxicating liquor called _mescal_; and one variety bears a fruit
which tastes somewhat like the strawberry, and is much sought after
by Mexicans.
The only time when cacti are really pretty is in early spring, when
they bloom. Then the bright-hued flowers dot the country with color,
and relieve the eye from the monotonous gray hue which pervades all
nature in a region where rains are so periodical as to prevent the
vernal freshness of the East.
There is a rare and nameless charm in the contemplation of those
extended prairies, with their soft gray tints, dreary to Eastern
people, but so dearly loved by those who become imbued with the deep
sentiment their vast expanse inspires.
I shall never become reconciled to localities where the eye cannot
look for miles and miles beyond the spot where one stands, and where
the density of the atmosphere circumscribes the view, limiting it
to a comparatively short distance. I have traveled in New Mexico and
Arizona for days, when on starting early in the morning the objective
point of my journey, and an endless stretch of road, perhaps for a
hundred miles, could be seen.
To mount a horse, such as can be found only in the West, perfect for
the purpose, and gallop over prairies, completely losing one’s self
in vast and illimitable space, as silent as lonely, is to leave every
petty care, and feel the contented frame of mind which can only be
produced by such surroundings. In those grand wastes one is truly
alone with God. Oh, I love the West, and dislike to think that the
day will surely come when it will teem with human life and all its
warring elements!
On that journey East from my dear Western home everything seemed new.
After traveling for days, Fort Union was reached, where we remained
a while, and then went North, passing through beautiful Colorado,
stopping at Trinidad, Pueblo, and finally, after seventeen days
of ambulance travel, reaching Denver. It was more like a panoramic
journey than a real one; for we kept continually advancing toward a
higher and higher degree of civilization, till its apex—New York—was
reached.
All those strange, crude, and uncivilized Western villages have since
become thriving railroad towns. Denver, with its perfect environment
of exquisite mountain scenery, will always remain in my mind a
picture of beauty.
Mr. Boyd was to leave me at Denver, and return to Fort Stanton; but
we first spent a delightful week there. My brother met and introduced
us to some pleasant people. There was a fine company at the principal
theatre, which we attended nightly, and I shed tears over dear
old Rip Van Winkle, who, though not personated by Jefferson, was
sufficiently well portrayed to merit and receive great applause.
The absolute freshness of feeling one experiences after years of
absence from such scenes is sufficiently delightful to make the jaded
theater-goer envious.
I was exceedingly proud of my introduction to that estimable
couple, Mr. and Mrs. McKee Rankin, the “stars” in that theatrical
combination; and we were honored by an invitation to dine with them,
which was accepted. We had the pleasantest imaginable time.
My brother had been living in Cheyenne for some time, and, in his
great desire to again witness a fine theatrical performance, had,
with a friend, assumed the entire responsibility of the troupe’s
success. A week had been spent in enlisting every one’s interest;
and although he guaranteed expenses in any event, yet when the
important night arrived there was a full house, and one of the most
picturesque audiences ever collected. Every miner, ranchman, gambler,
and the whole military garrison at Cheyenne, were not only there, but
applauded everything as a Western audience alone can—in a manner that
made the very building tremble.
Such an audience is a sight which once seen is not easily forgotten.
Similar heterogeneous elements never enter into the lives of the
people at the East, and it is almost impossible to describe such
a gathering. Imagine a peculiarly picturesque and large audience,
composed of every imaginable species of the human race, each so
intent upon the performance that actual surroundings are entirely
ignored.
In those early days of which I am writing, the population of Denver
was much more composite than it is at the present time; and the
experienced eye could readily distinguish men and women of every
nationality, and from every station in life, from the cowboy to
the millionaire. Beautiful Denver! my heart turns longingly to its
perfect climate; and the desire to once again inhale that sweet, pure
air, and catch a glimpse of its glorious mountain scenery, cannot be
overcome.
We left that lovely town after a week’s delightful stay, and for
two days and nights rolled over the prairies in cars, watching the
endless stretch of level and monotonous plains, relieved here and
there by herds of buffaloes, which sometimes approached so near as to
be shot at from the train. It reminded me of the excitement created
when whales are encountered on a sea voyage, because the passengers,
after once having seen them, were constantly on the lookout for more,
and the state of expectancy rendered their journey less tedious.
These herds of buffaloes have long since disappeared from the Kansas
plains, and their very memory will soon become a recollection of the
past.
As we rolled into dingy St. Louis, where brother left me, my heart
sank at the prospect of again breathing air too heavy and dense to
be anything but suffocating. The next morning found me in Chicago,
where I was to be met by another brother. Our little daughter was so
accustomed to being on friendly terms with every one, that she used
to go from one end of the car to the other, chatting and enjoying
every moment of her trip. To ride in cars, after lurching about in
all sorts of uncomfortable conveyances over rough mountains and
plains, was like gently gliding; and but for the heavy atmosphere and
coal dust, it seemed as if I should never tire.
A very enjoyable day was passed in Chicago. My brother pointed out,
with evident pride, the splendid public buildings, which but a
few months later were devastated by the fire fiend, only to rise,
phœnix-like, from their ruins in greater beauty and splendor.
I have the most profound admiration both for Chicago and the spirit
of enterprise shown by its inhabitants; and when I saw it again after
the calamity, I bowed in reverence to a community that could evolve
so much architectural beauty and elegance, to say nothing of comfort,
from so disastrous a misfortune as that terrible fire.
Twenty hours after leaving Chicago found me in New York. I had looked
forward with intense longing to that moment, supposing ineffable
happiness would be my portion when again there; but standing in front
of the Fifth Avenue hotel, a landmark more familiar to me than any
other in the city, my disappointment and heart sickness were severe.
I had seen the hotel rise from nothing; had always lived in the
immediate vicinity, daily passed it going to and from school; and
when homesick during my army life the mere thought of that hotel
would awaken the happiest feelings; but when the desire to again
see it had been attained my heart sank with a bitter feeling of
loneliness.
No longing has ever equaled in intensity the one which then took
possession of me—to be back again in my dear Western home, surrounded
by all the lonely grandeur of its lovely scenery. Though I remained
East an entire year, it was only because obliged to, and during all
those months I never ceased to sigh for the day of my return.
I had many joyful reunions with kind relatives and dear friends, much
to make life bright and cheerful; but I raved about the delights
of the West until friends thought me nearly crazy on the subject.
Besides missing my own home, as do all married women, in spite of
the unbounded hospitality of friends, I missed the quiet and freedom
from that mad rush which seems an inevitable part of life in a great
city. I was also in the hands of physicians, which was depressing.
The hardships of frontier life, at times when I was entirely unfitted
for travel, had told their tale, and compelled my return East in
order that my shattered health might be regained.
Three months were spent in New York, and then, with the approach of
warm weather, I wended my way to the mountains. Although they seemed
insipid after the rocky grandeur of the West, I preferred them, such
as they were, to the city with its endless streets and turmoil, where
tall chimney tops prevented my obtaining a glimpse of the blue sky I
had seen so freely and loved so well.