NOW WHERE IS THE "ELEPHANT"?
It was Journalist Villard, tanned and whiskered, and already booted and
shirted and armed like the rest of the inhabitants. He shook hands
vigorously with them.
"Pretty fair," replied Harry. "We've just got in. You seem to be the
only person we know here."
"I won't be that only person long," laughed Mr. Villard. "The ends of
the world are gathering here at the rate of a thousand a day. Why, by
that very stage arrived a banker I used to know well in Cincinnati, and
another friend at whose house in New York I've often eaten dinner. But
the reason I met the stage was that I rather expected to find in it
Horace Greeley and A. D. Richardson. They're on the way."
"Not Horace Greeley of the New York _Tribune_?" queried Harry, as if
astonished.
"Yes; that's the Greeley. Mr. Richardson represents the Boston _Journal_
and some other Eastern papers. All we newspaper fellows will write the
truth about the gold fields."
"How near is the gold?" eagerly asked Terry. "Can you show us where to
dig? Have you dug?"
"Not very much. Not for a dollar and a half a day--and that's the most
anybody is getting hereabouts. The whole creek bed is being turned
upside down. But you see that line of pilgrims trailing out into the
mountains, west across the Platte?"
"Yes."
"That's a rush to some new diggin's. They're following a new strike.
It's reported on good authority that a Georgian named John Gregory has
found the mother vein, as they call it, about forty miles out. It's a
pound-a-day strike, according to the say, and the gold down below has
been washed from that vein. The people are flocking in by the five
hundred at a time. I haven't been up there myself yet, but I hope the
news is true. Another month and we'd have had a riot in these Cherry
Creek diggin's. As it is, about half the in-comers have pulled out for
California, or home--and there's been talk of hanging D. C. Oakes, who
issued a 'Pike's Peak Guide' last winter, and Editor Byers, of the
_News_."
"Are those new diggin's on the Platte?" asked Harry, keenly.
"No. There're up Clear Creek, and nowhere near the Platte."
"Oh, jiminy!" sighed Terry. "Aren't there mines closer than that? My
father was out here last summer and found one just a few miles away, up
the Platte River."
"A Fifty-eighter, is he? Is he here now, and where's his mine?"
"No, sir; he came home sick, at Christmas; and he doesn't remember. But
he had some dust."
"Those early claims didn't amount to much, as I understand," stated Mr.
Villard. "That's what has fooled the people."
"Are any of the Russell brothers hereabouts?" asked Harry.
"The original boomers? Yes, they're all here now. Dr. Levi Russell has
spent the winter here; but Green Russell and J. Oliver have just got in
from Georgia with another party of some one hundred and fifty. You'll
find them over at Auraria, though. You know, Green Russell located
Auraria and named it for his home town in Georgia. The Aurarians and
Denverites don't mix much, except when the stage comes. The Russells
will likely be at the Eldorado Hotel this evening."
"And where's Archie Smith? Did you bring him through all right?"
"Yes. We landed him here. But I think he's joined the rush into the
mountains. What are you boys intending to do now? Camp and refit, I
suppose, before you look for your mine. Which are you going to
be--Denverites or Aurarians?"
"Both," laughed Harry. "But Auraria's flying the United States flag, I
see."
"That's over their hotel, the Eldorado. Mrs. Murat made it. Her husband
claims to be an Italian count. He does barbering, and she takes in
washing--and together, at the prices they charge, they're getting rich a
great deal faster than most of these gold-seekers. Auraria's proud of
that flag, because it's the only one in the state. Denver pretends to
poke fun at it, and says it's a laundry sign, manufactured from old red
and blue shirts and Mrs. Murat's white petticoat."
"What state?" demanded Harry.
"The new State of Jefferson--the future new state. Things move fast out
here. A convention was held last month by the miners, to organize for
another convention on June 8 when a state constitution will be adopted
and sent to Congress. Some people wanted the state named Pike's Peak.
You'll see the convention call in the _Rocky Mountain News_. Ah----!"
and Mr. Villard gazed aside. "There's a man I ought to talk with.
Good-bye; meet you later, I hope."
"I don't believe we'll wait for that convention," proposed Harry. "And I
don't believe we ought to put in much time hunting for your father's
mine. We'll get right into the new diggin's before every spot's taken."
Harry evidently was catching the fever. "First, though----"
"Paper? _Rocky Mountain News!_ Fresh off the press! Buy a paper, Mister?
Tell you all about the latest strikes, and where to go."
He was a very slim, tall young man whose trousers were finished off
below the knees with gunny sacking, in order to cover his long legs.
"Yes. Let me have one," responded Harry. And added, to Terry, while
handing out a dime: "That'll give us the quickest information."
The tall slim young man was turning the dime over and over in his palm.
"No good," he said. "Nothing less than a quarter goes, out here."
"But they told us picks and spades are fifteen cents."
"In trade, maybe. But these papers are a quarter, Mister. Two bits.
That's the smallest change in camp. Dust or coin."
"Hum!" grunted Harry, producing a quarter. He scratched his nose as he
glanced at the paper. "At this rate we'll soon be busted."
The paper was entitled "_Rocky Mountain News_, Cherry Creek, K. T."--the
initials standing, of course, for Kansas Territory. W. N. Byers was
proprietor. It was printed on a coarse brownish paper--seemed to be full
of items about gold being brought in from "gulches"--a number of
advertisements and announcements--had the convention call--
"We'll read it in camp," quoth Harry. "Gwan, Duke! Jenny! Haw!"
"Want to sell that buffalo, stranger?" interrupted another voice.
This man was a square, stubbly faced, red-faced and red-haired
individual, in a faded cotton shirt and old army trousers belted at the
waist with a rope.
"Why--I don't know," replied Harry, reflectively, scratching his nose.
The man walked around Duke, scrutinizing him.
"He's got a buckskin patch on. We'd better watch out," whispered Terry,
to his partner. So he had: the whole seat of his trousers was buckskin
coarsely stitched in place.
"Half the men in camp have buckskin or other patches," chuckled Harry.
"That gives me an idea."
"Offer you $25, dust, stranger," abruptly spoke the man. "He's lame. You
can't use him. He'll be no good in the diggin's."
"What'll you do with him, then?" questioned Harry.
"Put him in my show. He won't have to work. And he's too tough for
butchering. But he'll be all right on exhibition."
"Hum!" mused Harry. "My partner and I'll talk it over. We're going to
camp over night before going on."
"If you're aiming for the mountains, you'll have to leave him, anyway.
The trail is straight up--takes twenty oxen to haul half a ton. I'll
give you $35, dust, for buffalo and cart. I'll exhibit 'em both."
"We'll talk it over," repeated Harry.
"So long, then. You can find me. Name of Reilly."
"What do you say, Terry?" queried Harry, as they continued on to a
camping spot. "Duke's yours."
"No, he's part of the outfit. We're in together, aren't we? But I'd hate
to sell him unless he'll be treated well. Maybe we ought to sell him;
he's lame. Haven't we any money left?"
"Mighty little. And we're nearly out of grub, too. If newspapers are
twenty-five cents each, what'll a sack of flour cost? I was thinking of
a shave and a hair-cut, but----! I'll shave myself and we'll cut each
other's hair."
"If that mine is somewhere around yet, we may not have to sell him."
"And we'll need the cart to pack our gold in," added Harry. "But Duke
and the cart wouldn't be much good up in the mountains, I should think."
They were fortunate in finding a camping place, with wood and water,
near the mouth of Cherry Creek, at the Platte, and there tied Duke and
Jenny out. The first thing to do was to wash--the next thing to write
home--and the next, to have an early supper.
"We'll go back in before the post-office closes, look for some of the
Russells, and do all that we can; and be ready to start right along
somewhere or other in the morning."
"That's it," agreed Terry. "Whew, but there must be a lot of people
hunting gold. Wonder if all of those on that trail are bound for the
Gregory diggin's! We'll have to hurry." For he was getting the fever,
too.
"We will," promised Harry.
When they had left Shep on guard and had hastened back into Denver, a
line of men extended for one hundred yards from the window in the stage
office labeled "Letter Express." Harry stood in the line until almost
sunset. He returned to Terry with puzzled face.
"We got a letter, all right, but it cost twenty-five cents extra, and
the one I mailed cost another twenty-five cents, just up to Fort Laramie
on the North Platte. Then the government takes it on. There's only a
private express out of here, for mail, and it's doing a great business."
However, that letter from the Big Blue was worth the twenty-five cents.
Now, with the approach of night, Denver and Auraria, its neighbor, were
lively. The Denver House hotel seemed to be devoted mainly to drinking
and gambling. The long bar was crowded with all sorts of people; and
behind the card tables sat men, some of them in white silk shirts and
black broadcloth suits, urging bets.
Across the street was a collection of Indian tepees--an Arapahoe
village, according to report. The women and children stayed among the
lodges, but their husbands and fathers strolled everywhere, in blankets
and buffalo robes, saying little and seeing much.
"There's Chief Little Raven--and Left Hand, too!" exclaimed Terry. "Wait
a second. I'm going to ask them about Thunder Horse."
Little Raven and Left Hand soberly shook hands with their former
acquaintances.
"Thunder Horse he dead from his leg," explained Left Hand. "Dog bite
poison him--mebbe he poison dog. Whiskey bad, make him fool. One day he
die; the two foolish men who run away in that wagon take him on in wagon
and sell him same day to one big-mouth man near the Republican trail.
Now his head is in Aurary. You want to see?"
"Pine Knot Ike's come!" asserted Terry, as he and Harry proceeded to
Auraria, whither they were bound anyway. "I don't want to see him."
"I'd a heap rather see Sol," answered Harry. "But we'll try to see the
Russells. That's important."
The creek was so nearly dry that several tents and log shacks had been
placed in its sandy bed. The banks were about four feet high here, and
a shaky log foot-bridge crossed from town to town.
Auraria was larger than Denver City, but the buildings were rougher,
whereas the Denver City logs had been surfaced and trimmed. Still,
Auraria seemed to have the principal store building, as yet--a story and
a half high, with a lumber roof. The upper floor was occupied by the
_Rocky Mountain News_. Through the glass window the printers might be
seen setting type. Under them was a noisy saloon.
Miners, emigrants, Mexicans, Indians--flannel shirts, heavy boots,
moccasins, much whiskers and long hair: in this respect the Auraria out
of doors was like the Denver out of doors.
"I hear Ike," said Terry.
At the corner just beyond the Eldorado Hotel somebody stationed beside a
flaring pitchy torch was declaiming in a loud voice, before a large
tent. But it wasn't Pine Knot Ike. It was the red-headed Mr. Reilly. On
a placard across the tent front was the announcement, rudely charcoaled:
"SEE IT! SEE IT! SEE IT!
The Ferocious Head of Chief Bloody Knife!
Cannibal of the Plains!
Slain in Hand-to-Hand Conflict by the Noted
Frontiersman Black Panther!
Admission 50c gold."
Evidently this was the show to which Mr. Reilly had referred. Standing
on a barrel, and occasionally coughing from the smoke of the torch
fastened to an upright against the barrel, he strenuously invited the
public inside. He accepted the price, and waved each patron to pass
within. However, business was not at all brisk; and suddenly catching
the eye of Harry, he beckoned.
"Go inside, gentlemen," he bade. "It's my treat. Walk in; view the
ferocious cannibal head and the equally ferocious scout who cut it off
after killing the wearer of it."
"Aw----!" attempted Terry; but Harry, with a nudge, interrupted him.
"Go on in, Terry. I'll talk with Mr. Reilly a minute."
The tent contained several whiskered, booted miners and emigrants,
gazing at the hideous head of Thunder Horse, also on a barrel--Ike's
barrel--and on a stool beside the barrel was seated Ike himself, alias
the "noted frontiersman, Black Panther." Ike's thick black hair and
whiskers were shaggier than ever. He was attired in the same greasy
slouch hat, but furthermore in a shabby, red-flannel-trimmed buckskin
shirt whose gaudy fringes fell to his boot-tops. Around his waist were
belted two revolvers and a butcher-knife, and against his knees rested a
battered, large-muzzled yager or smooth-bore musket--fortunately
harmless by reason of lacking a trigger.
From amidst his hair and whiskers Ike stared before him fiercely and
fixedly, occasionally slowly blinking in the light of a tallow candle
lantern.
It all was so perfectly absurd that--but hold on! Look out! Bang! Bang!
Without a word a red-shirted miner who had been intently gazing and
swaying as if drunk had whipped out his revolver and fired. At the first
shot, away spun the head, and simultaneously with the second shot away,
uttering a loud shout, had dived Black Panther the noted
frontiersman--half through the tent and half under the tent,
disappearing while almost tumbling the canvas on top of the company. He
was gone before his stool had ceased rolling.
"Set 'em up ag'in!" roared the red-shirted miner. "Fetch on the rest o'
that Injun! Whoop-ee! Whar's that air Panther man? I want to show him
some shootin'! I'm an Injun killer myself from Pike County, Missoury!"
Into the tent, now filled with shouts and laughter and powder smoke,
rushed Mr. Reilly, close followed by the alarmed Harry. The miner's
friends led him out. Mr. Reilly picked up the head, which, weathered as
hard and as dry as a mummy's head, now was drilled right through from
nose to back of skull--which did not improve its face any. But Mr.
Reilly seemed delighted.
"That bullet hole's the best thing yet," he declared. "I'll have to
change the name of the scout to Dead-Shot Bill. But wait till I ketch
that other man--the measley rabbit, ripping my tent to pieces and
disgracing the clothes I lent him. How'd one of you boys like to be
Dead-Shot Bill, for a spell?"
"Nope, thank you," laughed Harry. "Come on, Terry. We've got more
business to 'tend to."
"Well, we can sell him the cart and Duke for $50," informed Harry,
outside. "He's getting together a show. It will be a soft job for Duke;
no heavy hauling, just standing 'round and eating and looking wild."
"I wouldn't sell him Duke if Ike's to be in the show, too," declared
Terry.
"Ike," assured Harry, "will never be back. He's probably running yet.
And maybe we won't have to sell Duke. Now for the Russells, anyway.
We'll try the Eldorado."
But they were relieved from entering the crowded Eldorado by
encountering Journalist Villard and another man just stepping out.
"Ah!" spoke Mr. Villard, recognizing them, in the dusk. "If you wish to
ask Mr. Green Russell anything, here he is."
"Yes; we want to ask him if he remembers a man in his party of last
summer by the name of Jones," said Harry, quickly, for it was apparent
that Messrs. Villard and Russell were in a hurry.
"I shorely do," responded Mr. Russell. He was a broad-shouldered man,
with sparse beard and long-pointed moustache--had a cool eye and a
deliberate speech.
"He is this boy's father," continued Harry. "He came home with some dust
and claimed to have located a mine about a day's travel from here, on
the Platte."
"If that was Fifty-eight, 'tain't wuth looking after now," decided Mr.
Russell. "Too close in. I reckon it was yonder whar we had some dry
diggin's that we-all worked out, 'round Placer Camp."
"Captain Russell's an old miner, you know," put in Mr. Villard. "He's
prospected through here pretty closely, since he came out first, and so
have his brothers; and they're convinced that the only paying mines will
be found in the mountains."
"Yes," drawled Mr. Russell. "These hyar sandy creeks peter out. You have
to get up higher, into the gravel and rock."
He and Mr. Villard passed on, only to be repeatedly stopped and
questioned in their progress.
"That settles us, I think," said Harry, as he and Terry turned for their
camp. "We'll pack Jenny and light out for the Gregory Gulch region.
We've got to have a mine ready for your father when he comes, so as to
pay him back the 'grub-stake.'"
"And another ready for George to work," reminded Terry. "He'll expect an
elephant, too."
As the two partners recrossed the foot-bridge into Denver City, night
had cloaked the mountains in the west and had enfolded all the plains.
Down here lights flickered in tents and through the chinking of
windowless, floorless and sometimes roofless cabins, twinkled among the
other gold-seekers' camps spread over the broken brush, and on the
trails in north and south and yonder for Gregory Gulch.