THE TRAIL GROWS LIVELY
Yes, plenty of company now. The procession had penetrated a short
distance before, but stretched a farther distance behind or eastward:
white-topped wagons of all descriptions, their canvases torn by hail,
stained by rain and dingy with dust, drawn by ox-teams, mule-teams and
even cow-teams, and accompanied by men, women and children afoot, a few
ahorse, every individual and every animal striving to reach the Pike's
Peak country and the Cherry Creek diggin's there.
The pilgrimage was about to "noon"; and with Duke and Jenny pulling
bravely, making their best showing, the Limited skirted the line, while
good-naturedly replying to the various welcomes.
Pretty soon the road ahead was blocked, as the overlanders spread right
and left to cook and eat dinner.
"Let's drive off to the side, yonder, Terry," bade Harry. "That looks
like a good spot near to that 'Root Hog or Die' outfit."
"How are you, boys?" greeted the proprietor of the "Root Hog or Die"
wagon. "We're most of us from Ohio. Where are you from?"
"From the Big Blue Valley, Kansas Territory, farther east," answered
Harry.
"We came by the stage trail," added Terry.
"I see. Well, we took a vote and decided on the Republican Valley, and a
hard time we've had, but here we are. What do you say to cooking our
dinner on the one fire, and we'll swap notes?"
He seemed to be an extraordinarily well-spoken man, notwithstanding his
untrimmed beard and rough garb. Was a college professor, as happened, in
Ohio; and was going to the mountains for his health as well as to make a
fortune. So here he was, with his wife and little girl, accompanying a
lot of other Ohio people.
Leaving Duke and Jenny to graze a little while longer, after dinner the
"boys from the Big Blue" strolled about, to inspect other outfits and
exchange information. The noon camp was rather quiet, with the men and
women and children resting or finishing their dishes; but back down the
trail there appeared to be a commotion--as of people gathering around a
wagon from which a man was making a speech.
"Come on. We might as well see all the sights on the way," bade Harry.
The speech-maker's back was toward them. Terry figured that if he talked
as rapidly as he flourished his arms, his speech would soon be ended for
lack of words. However, the words were still flowing strong. Something
in the loud tone, and the gestures, and the long unkempt black hair, and
the high thick shoulders in the ragged shirt, and the greasy slouch hat,
struck Terry as familiar.
"Pine Knot Ike!" he exclaimed.
"The very man--our valued acquaintance and fellow citizen, Ike Chubbers,
'half wild hoss and half grizzly b'ar,'" chuckled Harry. "We'll stand
off and listen to his discourse."
They halted on the edge of the little throng, from where they could view
Ike's hairy profile as, beating the air with his fists, above the
up-turned gaping faces, he delivered his harangue.
"I air the only man who ever roped an' rid an alligator in its native
swamps," he was proclaiming, and already he was quite hoarse. "I air the
only man who fit off five hunderd of the wust savage Injuns that roam
these hyar plains, an' killed nigh every one of 'em. Gentlemen an'
feller citizens: Look at this hyar bar'l. Count the bullet-holes." And
by main force Ike held aloft his whiskey barrel. It certainly was well
peppered with holes. "When the savage Injuns come down on me I war
alone, travelin' my peaceful way to help civilize the diggin's, but I
war too tough to kill. Injuns make a mistake when they attack a man o'
my nater, gentlemen, for I air slow to wrath, but I air a powerful
fighter when anybody, red or white, goes to twist my tail. I air a
ring-tail twister myself, gentlemen. So I tells my bulls to charge them
Injuns, an' I forts myself behind this bar'l an' opens up with my
pill-slingers. We fit for a runnin' mile, until this bar'l war as you
see it now, gents, an' what Injuns warn't dead had fired all their shots
an' skeedaddled. Then I gets out an' cuts off the head of the chief of
'em all, an' puts it in the bar'l, an' hyar it is on exhibition. The
head complete of a real, native wild Injun, ladies an' gents--the actual
head of old Roarin' Buffler, big chief o' the combined Sioux, Kiowa,
Cheyenne an' 'Rapaho nations, most o' who air still layin' out thar on
the desolate plains, sculped by my own hands. Old Roarin' Buffler
hisself put seven holes in this bar'l 'fore his head went in. The head
air nicely pickled an' perfectly natteral, ladies an' gents; an' for the
privilege o' seein' it I ax only a small collection. Will you kindly
cirkilate my hat, an' be keerful not to take out more'n you drop in."
Whereupon, having handed down his battered slouch hat, Ike paused, wiped
his face with a dirty bandanna, and seated himself upon his scarred
barrel.
"He put every hole in that with his own revolver, I bet you!" whispered
Terry. "The old fraud!"
"A convenient way of drinking the whiskey," murmured Harry. "If the
barrel wasn't his, he can claim the Indians did it, you know."
"Well, we can tell him about the first hole, all right," scolded the
indignant Terry. "And so can other people."
"Now for the head," invited Harry.
The hat had been returned to Ike, who eyed the contents doubtfully,
shook them over, and stowed them in his pocket with a scowl.
"Six bits air a mighty measley sum to pay for the privilege an'
eddication o' seein' the actual head o' the biggest, fiercest Injun who
ever terrerized the West till he tuk arter the wrong pusson, but I'll
show him to you, jest the same."
So saying, Ike reached into the barrel, and extracting his prize, held
it up. Harry nudged Terry; staring, Terry saw, recognized, gasped.
"Thunder Horse! Aw----"
"Do you know, I kind of expected that," alleged Harry. "I kind of felt
it was coming."
The face of the severed head was assuredly the hideous face of Thunder
Horse, the drunken Kiowa; and the hair was the Kiowa's hair.
"Thunder Horse died because of his leg, and Ike found him and cut off
his head!" scoffed Terry. "I'm going straight to the wagon and show the
whole thing up. We'll make Ike look sick--that old blow and his barrel
and his 'big-chief' head!"
"No," opposed Harry. "Wait. There's no use in showing Ike up now. We'll
save our ammunition."
"Well, I'm mighty glad old Thunder Horse is gone, anyhow," observed
Terry, as they went back to the cart. "He was bad medicine."
The Ohio party were starting on. So the boys from the Big Blue put Duke
and Jenny to work again and fell in with the procession wending broad
way up the shallow valley of the Republican.
Once every day the procession opened to give passage to the stages
westward bound on the trail; and at last stages eastward bound,
returning to Leavenworth, were met. They were assailed with all kinds of
questions, but they brought little news of importance, and apparently
little gold.
Many people eastward bound, ahorse or afoot, also were met.
"Turn back, every one of you," they advised. "Folks are going out
faster'n they're coming in. Some of 'em don't even stop to unhitch their
teams. Picks and spades are offered at fifteen cents apiece, and no
takers, and the man who makes fifty cents a day is lucky."
"Auraria's burned and we've hanged the boomers," proclaimed another
squad.
And another squad, trudging along, warned earnestly:
"Look out for the man with buckskin patches on his breeches. He's the
leader of the gang who's robbing the pilgrims. Remember the buckskin
patches. There's no elephant--only jackasses."
Not few in the procession did turn back, especially when the water and
fuel began to fail, as wider and more bare and sandy the valley became.
Soon there were several marches without water at all, for the river had
sunk into the sand. The choking dust floated high, the sun was burning
hot. The majority of the animals were sore-footed, from the gravel and
cactus and brush. Duke, who had been behaving nobly, seemed to have
strained his shoulder and was limping. Jenny was gaunter than ever.
The trail had veered to the southwest--to strike, it was reported, some
creeks, and Cherry Creek itself.
"That's another trail yonder to the south, isn't it?" spoke Harry, one
morning.
"Yes; and wagons on it!" exclaimed Terry. "Maybe it's the Smoky Hill
trail, or the people from the Santa Fe trail."
The "Root Hog or Die" professor, who tramped with them while his oxen
followed of their own accord, consulted a map that he carried.
"I think they must be from the Smoky Hill route," he said.
The two lines of travel approached each other, and at evening were about
to join. Terry uttered a cheer.
"I see the wheel-barrow man!" he cried. "They're the Smoky Hill crowd,
all right."
"They look pretty well used up," remarked Harry. "Must have had a hard
trip."
The wheel-barrow man, pushing bravely, was in the van. His barrow
wobbled, and the wheel was reinforced with rawhide, but he himself was
as cheery as ever when the Big Blue outfit welcomed him.
"Yes, terrible hard trip," he acknowledged. "Some of us near died with
thirst, and I hear tell that several wagons were burnt for fuel, so's to
cook food and keep the folks from starving. But those of us who are left
are still going."
"Same here," asserted Harry. "How far to the mountains, do you reckon?"
"Better than a hundred miles, but we'll get there."
The next day the pilgrims from the Smoky Hill trail and the pilgrims
from the Republican trail traveled on together, with every eye eagerly
set ahead, for the first sight of the mountains.
"I see 'em! Hooray!
"There's the land o' gold, boys!"
"Those are the Rocky Mountains! We're almost through."
"They're awful small for their size, aren't they?" quavered a woman.
They did appear so. They were like a band of low hummocky clouds in the
western horizon. But the next morning, when the outfits climbed over a
gravelly ridge that grew a few pines, one after another they cheered
joyfully again. Hats were waved, sunbonnets were flourished. The
mountains seemed much closer--they loomed grandly in a semi-circle from
south to north; their crests were white, their slopes were green and
gray.
"Where's Pike's Peak?"
Everybody wanted to know that. The "Root Hog or Die" professor consulted
his map, for information.
"I rather think Pike's Peak is the last peak we see, to the south," he
mused. "That to the far north is called Long's Peak."
"Where are the diggin's, then?"
"Well, they're somewhere in between."
From the piny ridge the route descended along the side of a brushy
valley pleasantly dotted with cottonwoods and other leafy trees, and
struck the head of a creek course--and presently another trail on which,
from the south, still other pilgrim outfits were hastening northward at
best speed.
Where the trail from the east joined with this second trail from the
south a signboard faced, pointing north, with the words: "Santa Fe-Salt
Lake Trail. Cherry Creek Diggin's, 70 m."
"Cherry Creek at last!" affirmed Harry, that evening. "Whew, but that
mountain air tastes good!"
Now this combined trail on northwest to the diggin's was a well-traveled
trail indeed, deep with sand and dust. Occasionally it dipped into the
creek bed, which in places was wide enough and dry enough for the teams.
The mountains were on the left--distant thirty miles, declared the
professor, although the greenhorns declared they were within a short
walk. High rolling plains were on the right.
A few prospectors were encountered, already digging and washing in the
creek, or scouting about. From the last night's camp a little bevy of
lights could be seen, ahead--the diggin's at the mouth of the creek!
During the next morning----
"There's the river! There's the Platte!" announced voices, indicating a
line of cottonwoods before.
Wagons coming down from the north, by the Platte trail, also could be
seen, making for a collection of tents and huts gathered near where the
Cherry Creek apparently emptied into the Platte.
Much excitement reigned throughout the procession. The wheel-barrow man
already had trundled ahead. Duke limped gamely, and Jenny kept her long
ears pricked forward. Now it was every outfit for itself, in order to
secure the best location and get to work.
In mid-afternoon the trail forked, and signs directed: "To the left for
Auraria, the coming metropolis," and "Straight ahead for Denver City."
Men were stationed here, beseeching the pilgrims to settle in Auraria,
or in Denver, and make their fortunes. The men were red-faced and
perspiring and earnest.
Auraria was the older, and on the mountain side of the creek--had the
newspaper! Denver was the better built, and the more enterprising, was
on the trail side of the creek and had the stage office.
"What'll we do, Harry?" panted Terry, as momentarily the Limited halted,
held by the confused press in front, bombarded and undecided.
"Keep a-going straight ahead," said Harry. "That's been our program. If
we don't like Denver we can cross to Auraria, but blamed if I can see
much difference between 'em."
And that was true. On the flat ground along the shallow Cherry Creek lay
sprawled an ugly collection of log huts and dingy tents and Indian
tepees of buffalo hides, with people moving busily among them, and a
host of emigrant wagons and animals and camps on the outskirts. All the
flat on both sides of the creek was dingy and dusty, with the brush
crushed down or gleaned clean for forage and fuel.
East stretched the wide plains; west was the cottonwood timber marking
the Platte River, and beyond the river, some distance, were bare hills,
grayish and reddish, and behind them the real mountains, rising rocky
and high until their snow crests gleamed against the sky.
Distant, a line of gold-seekers with wagons and with packs seemed to be
traveling into the mountains; and down along the Platte were entering
Denver, from the north, other gold-seekers, to take their places.
A hum of voices welled, filling the air with excitement.
"Shucks! Is this all there is?" complained Terry. "I don't see any
city. The whole thing isn't as big as Manhattan, even."
"And not half as good-looking," added Harry.
But there was not much space for halting to criticize. The procession
was pressing on, jostling, crowding--spreading out, some of it to find
camping spots at once, some to drive farther on. With the cart creaking,
and Duke limping badly, Jenny stumbling and grunting, and Shep, dusty
and burry, pacing soberly at the rear, the Pike's Peak Limited entered
Denver City.
"Hope we see Sol," ventured Harry, as they threaded their way among the
first tents, and several roofless cabins, located out where signs stuck
in the bare ground proclaimed: "Denver City Town Co. Fine building lots
for sale."
In front of the tent flaps, and in the cabin doorways, men in boots,
with trousers tucked in, and in flannel shirts, red or blue, were
sitting, gazing abroad, but none of these was Sol.
Further along, the road took on the semblance of a street--thronged with
emigrants; booted, whiskered men in their flannel shirts, and wearing
revolvers; Indians, Mexicans, oxen, and dogs.
"I don't see Sol, though," commented Terry, searching about among those
faces, every one of which was strange to him.
"No, but I see plenty of men with buckskin patches on their breeches,"
answered Harry. "They're the old-timers, I reckon. Wonder if the name of
any of 'em is Russell."
The passage of the half-buffalo and the yellow mule hitched tandem
attracted considerable attention, and a volley of bantering remarks. But
a chorus of whoops and a general rush made Harry and Terry glance
behind.
"A stage is coming. We'd better get out of the way, hadn't we?"
suggested Terry.
"Right-o!" And Harry, driving, drew aside to a clear place opposite a
long one-story canvas-roofed log building which announced: "Denver
House." This was the hotel.
The stage jingled up; and while the passengers piled out was surrounded
by a jostling crowd of whiskered, red-shirted and blue-shirted and
buckskin-shirted (as well as buckskin-patched) residents.
As it rolled away again, to put up for the night, Terry heard himself
and Harry hailed by a familiar voice, at last.
"Well, I declare! Got through, did you--buffalo and mule and dog and
all! What kind of a trip did you have?"