Cheyenne, September 6, 1882.
|THE party, consisting of Governor Hale and wife, Secretary Morgan and
wife, President Slack, of the "Wyoming Press Association, and wife, Mr.
Baird and myself, started out of Laramie, about 8:30 last evening, and
excurted along over the hill with some hesitation, arriving here this
morning at four o'clock. The engine at first slipped an eccentric on
Dale Creek bridge, and we remained there some time, delayed but happy.
Then, as the night wore away and the gray dawn came down over the broad
and mellow sweep of plain to the eastward, an engine ahead of us on a
freight train blew off her monkey-wrench, and we were delayed in the
neighborhood of Hazzard several more hours. Hazzard is a thriving town
on the eastern slope of the mountains, with glorious possibilities for a
town site. With gas and waterworks and a city debt of $200,000, Hazzard
will some day attract notice from the civilized world. If her vast
deposits of sand and alkali could be brought to the notice of capital,
Hazzard would some day take rank with such cities as Wilcox and Tie
City.
Still we had a good deal of fun. We heard that Whitelaw Reid, of the New
York was on board, and we sent the porter into the other car after him.
Mr. Reid did not behave as we thought he would at first. We had presumed
that he was cold and distant in his manners, but he is not. As soon as
the first embarrassment of meeting us was over, he sailed right in and
did all the talking himself, just as any cultivated gentleman would. He
told us all about New York politics and how he was fighting the machine,
at the same time, however, casually dropping a remark or two that led us
to conclude that it was only one machine that didn't want another one
to win. He is a tall, rather fine-looking man, with a Grecian nose and
long, dark hair, which he does up in tin foil at night. I told him that
I was grieved to know that his hired man had, inadvertently no doubt,
referred to me in a manner that gave the American people an idea that
I was a good deal bigger man than I really was. I asked him whether he
wanted to apologize then and there or be thrown over Dale Creek bridge
into the rip-snorting torrent below.
He said he didn't believe that such a remark had been made, but if
it had he would go home and kill the man who wrote it, if that would
poultice up my wounded heart. I said it would. If he would just mail
me the remains of the man who made the remark, not necessarily for
publication, but as a guarantee of good faith, it would be all right.
We talked all night, and incurred the everlasting displeasure of a fat
man from San Francisco, who told the porter he wanted his money back
because he hadn't slept any all night. He seemed mad because we were
having a little harmless conversation among ourselves, and when the
clock in the steeple struck four he rolled over in his berth, gave a
large groan and then got up and dressed. Some people are so morbidly
nervous that they cannot sleep on a train, and they naturally get cross
and say ungentlemanly things. This man said some things while he was
dressing and buttoning his suspenders, that made my blood run cold.
A man who has no better control of his temper than that, ought not
to travel at all. He just simply makes a North American side-show of
himself.
Cheyenne is very greatly improved since I was here last. The building
up of the corner opposite the Inter Ocean hotel has added greatly to
the attractiveness of the Magic City, and other work is being done which
enhances the beauty of the city very much. F. E. Warren is one of the
most enterprising and thoroughly vigorous western business men I ever
knew. He is an anomaly, I might say. When I say he is an anomaly, I
do not mean to reflect upon him in any way, though I do not know the
meaning of the word. I simply mean that he is the chief grand rustle of
a very rustling city.