community dinner and "literary." Imagine the picturesque company,
congregated from miles around, each contributing whatever he could
muster of food and drink--the old Earl of Dunraven, as well as others,
had a bar!--and seated at a long, single table. What genuine,
home-made fun! What pranks, what wit--yes, what brilliance! Some one,
usually Parson Lamb, sometimes gaunt old Scotch John Cleave, the
postmaster, rarely some noted visitor, who either from choice or
ill-health lingered on into the winter, made a speech. There were
declamations, debates, the interminable, singsong ballads of the
frontier, usually accompanied by French harp or fiddle. Families were
few, bachelors much in the majority; I remember that at one of the
community affairs there were eighteen bachelors out of a total
attendance of thirty persons! But as the region settled up, the
bachelor ranks dwindled. They, like the big game, disappeared, as
though in their case "open season" prevailed likewise.
I had attended several of these pioneer festivities and had enjoyed
them greatly, and was much impressed with their importance, for
underlying all the fun was an old-fashioned dignity seldom found
nowadays. But Parson Lamb told me these dinners were tame compared to
a real mountain dance. "Just you wait till you see a real shindig" he
said. "Then you'll have something to talk about." In January, there
was a letter in the mail from Jim Oss, my acquaintance of the train on
which I came West. We had been carrying on a desultory correspondence,
but this message was momentous.
"I am giving a dance Monday," he wrote, "to celebrate proving up on my
homestead. Come ahead of time so you can see all the fun." His
hundred and sixty acres lay on the western slope of the Continental
Divide--fifty-five miles away. Snow lay deep over every one of those
intervening, upstanding miles! The Parson was concerned about my going
alone.
"'Tain't safe to cross that old range alone any time of year, let alone
the dead of winter. Hain't no one else agoing from here?"
I inquired, but it seemed there was not. Secretly I was well pleased
to have it so. I was young enough to thrill at the chance of so
hazardous an experience.
Parson Lamb agreed that Friday morning would be a good time to start.
We were not superstitious, and it wasn't the thirteenth. The trip had
to be made on snowshoes, with which I was not very adept, but that only
added to its attractions. In order to cross the Divide, it was
necessary to descend from my lofty nine thousand feet elevation to
seven thousand five hundred, before starting to climb Flattop trail,
which led over to Grand Lake, the last settlement before reaching Oss's
place. By sundown I reached a deserted sawmill shack, the last shelter
between me and Grand Lake. It was six miles below the top of the
Divide, and twenty miles to the Lake. There I spent the night and at
dawn was trailing upward, in the teeth of a sixty-mile gale!
The first two of those uprising six miles were fair going, and took
only a little more than an hour. Thereafter the trail grew more
precipitous. The third mile required one hour, and the fourth, two
hours of exhausting work. The sun rose, but not the temperature;
powdery snow swirled around the heads of the peaks; clouds swept above
the ridges, flayed and torn; from above timberline came the roar of the
wind.
Dark glasses protected my eyes from snow and wind; and I was warmly
dressed. I left my bedding roll at the sawmill, to be picked up on the
return trip, for shelter could be had at Grand Lake. The light pack I
carried contained peanuts, chocolate, and a change of socks.
The higher I climbed the wilder became the wind. From timberline I
surveyed the prospect ahead and hesitated. Clouds and snow whirled up
in a solid mass, blinding and choking me. The cold penetrated my heavy
clothing. I went on. In a few minutes I was in the midst of the
turmoil, utterly lost, buffeted about. I tried to keep the wind in my
face for compass, but it was so variable, eddying from all directions,
that it was not reassuring. Near the top of the mountain a blast
knocked me down, and half smothered me with flying snow. I arose
groggily, uncertain which way to head; it was impossible to see even a
step in front. The staff I carried served me well, with it I went
tapping and feeling my way like a blind man. There I was on the top of
the world, thirteen thousand feet above sea level--and overlooking
nothing.
Flattop mountain is shaped like a loaf of bread, sloping off steeply at
the ends, its sides guarded by sheer cliffs.. It was these cliffs I
feared and strove to avoid. I had heard startling tales of the effects
of high altitude on one; how the atmosphere was very rare and light.
Had it been any heavier that day, I could not have survived. Violent
blasts of wind frequently bowled me over. After one of these falls, I
arose uncertainly, drifted with the wind for a moment's respite,
neglected to feel ahead with my staff--and walked out upon a snow
cornice that overhung the top of the cliff. The cornice broke away!
Amidst an explosion of snow I plunged downward, struggling frantically
as I went!
[Illustration: I plunged downward, struggling frantically.]
I landed in a snowdrift featherbed which, while it broke my fall,
almost buried me alive. The wind reached me only in occasional gusts,
so I realized that I must be sheltered by the cliff wall. In the first
brief lull I took my bearings. I had landed upon a narrow ledge a few
feet wide. Below me yawned the gorge. It was a terrible half hour's
work with a snowshoe as a shovel to extricate myself, but a few minutes
later I was once more on top.
Again I struggled upward. I reached the pass and started down the
western slope toward timber. My fingers and toes were frosted, I was
numb with cold, and so battered by the gale I could only pant. My
careful calculations had come to naught, as I was far behind the
schedule I had planned. I decided to make up time by abandoning the
trail and taking a shortcut to timber and shelter through an unknown
canyon which I thought led to Grand Lake.
But the canyon was hard going. Thick, young evergreens, entangling
willows and fallen logs impeded every step. I could make no headway
and darkness was coming on. Disgusted, despairing, I took to the
frozen stream, only to skid over icy bowlders and at last to break
through the ice crust into the frigid water.
Long after dark I staggered down the single street of Grand Lake toward
a dim patch of light. It proved to be the window of a store. Within
was a glowing stove, surrounded by a group of men.
The proprietor eyed me with suspicion. "Where'd you drop from?"
I waved vaguely toward the Continental Divide.
"Must 'a' bin something urgent to make you tackle the Flattop trail in
winter."
He awaited my explanations curiously--but I had slumped down near the
stove and was half asleep.
Next morning I looked back up the way I had come--low clouds, tattered
to shreds. Even at that distance I could hear the roar of the wind
among the loft crags. I was thankful that I had crossed the Divide the
day before. It was still thirty miles to the cabin of my friend, but
they were fairly easy miles compared with those I had just traversed.
Even so, so spent was my strength, it was pitch dark when I dragged
wearily up the broken road to where that cabin nestled in its grove of
spruces.
The dance was not until Monday night, so I took it for granted that I
should be the first to arrive, since I was a full day ahead of the
function. But no! Many were already there! They were eating supper
and made room for me at the long table before the open fire. They were
cordial and made me feel at home at once, marveling over my making the
trip alone, and praising my pluck. I was much too weary and hungry to
protest, even though I had been becomingly modest. Seeing this, they
filled my plate and let me be, turning their nimble tongues on our
host--What handsome whiskers--la! la! He'd better be careful with
those hirsute adornments and a cabin with a plank floor! He couldn't
hope to remain a bachelor long! So the banter ran.
Supper over and the dishes cleared away, the candles were snuffed out
and the company (visitors were never called guests) sat around the
flickering hearth and speculated over the possible coming of the Moffat
railroad. What an assorted company it was! Young and
grizzled--trappers, miners, invalids seeking health, adventurers,
speculators, a few half-breeds; all men of little education, but of
fascinating experience; a few women of quiet poise and resourcefulness.
Their clothes were nondescript and betrayed the fact that they had come
from the East, having been sent west by condoning relatives, no doubt
after having lived in more fashionable circles. There were two little
children who fell asleep early in the evening in their parents' arms.
The company was put to bed in Oss's one-room house by the simple means
of lying down upon the floor fully dressed, feet to the fire.
All were up early next morning, and each found some task to do. Some
of the men cut wood and piled it outside the door; the women folks
assisted Oss with breakfast which was cooked in the fireplace; for he
had not yet reached the luxury of a cook stove, which would have to be
"fetched in" over sixty miles of mountain roads and would cost a tidy
sum besides.
Some artistic soul, with a memory of urban ways, made long ropes of
evergreens and hung them in garlands from the rafters, a flag was
draped above the fireplace, lanterns were hung ready to light.
Distant "neighbors" kept flocking in all day, each bringing a
neighborly offering; fresh pork from the owner of an only shoat; choice
venison steaks; bear meat from a hunter who explained that the bear had
been killed months before and kept frozen in the meat house. Wild
raspberry jam, with finer flavor than any I have ever tasted before or
since, was brought by a bachelor who vied with the women folks when it
came to cookery. The prize offering, however, were some mountain
trout, speared through the ice of a frozen stream.
Dancing began early. The music was supplied by an old-time fiddler who
jerked squeaky tunes from an ancient violin, singing and shouting the
dance calls by turns. Voice, fiddle and feet, beating lusty time to
his tunes, went incessantly. He had an endless repertoire, and a
talent for fitting the names of the dancers to his ringing rimes.
Some of his offerings were:
"Lady round lady and gents so low!
First couple lead to right--
Lady round lady and gents so low--
Lady round gent and gent don't go--
Four hands half and right and left."
The encores he would improvise:
"Hit the lumber with your leather--
Balance all, an' swing ter left."
All swayed rhythmically, beating time with their feet, clapping their
hands, bowing, laughing. The men threw in their fancy steps, their
choice parlor tricks. A few performed a double shuffle; one a pigeon's
wing; a couple of trappers did an Indian dance, twisting their bodies
into grotesque contortions and every so often letting out a yell that
made one's hair stand on end.
There was little rest between the dances, for the old fiddler had
marvelous powers of endurance. He sawed away, perspired, shouted and
sang as though his life depended on his performance. He was having as
good, or better time, than anyone. With scarcely a moment to breathe
he'd launch into another call--and not once the whole night through did
he repeat:
"Ole Buffler Bill--Buffler Bill!
Never missed an' never will."
Then as the dancers promenaded he'd switch to a new improvisation,
ending in a whirlwind of wit and telling personalities, which sent the
company into hysterical laughter. I joined in the dance, rather
gawkily no doubt, for my mother's father was a Quaker preacher and we
had never been allowed to dance at home. The ladies regarded my
clumsiness with motherly forbearance, and self-sacrificingly tried to
direct my wayward feet. But either because I was not recovered from my
trip or because the strangeness and confusion wearied me, I could not
get the hang of the steps. Presently an understanding matron let me
slip out of the dance, and I sat down by the fiddler and dozed.
Clanking spurs, brilliant chaps, fur-trimmed trappers' jackets,
thudding moccasins, gaudy Indian blankets and gay feathers, voluminous
feminine flounces swinging from demure, snug-fitting basques--all
whirled above me in a kaleidoscopic blur!
[Illustration: I sat down by the fiddler and dozed.]
A wild war whoop awakened me--nothing but a little harmless hilarity!
It was two o'clock in the morning. I wished the dance would end so I
could sleep undisturbed. I envied the two children asleep on the
floor. But the dance went on. The fiddle whined, its player shouted,
heavy shoes clumped tirelessly on the plank floor. There was still
energetic swing and dash to the quadrilles, still gay voices were
raised in joyous shouts. Those hearty pioneers were full of "wim,
wigor and witality"!
Dawn broke redly over the Divide; still the dance continued. Daylight
sifted over the white world, and yet the dancers did not pause. At
last as the sun came up, the old fiddler reluctantly stood on his chair
and played "Home Sweet Home."
All-night dances were at that time the custom of the mountain folk; the
company assembled as far ahead of time as was convenient, and remained,
sometimes, a day or two after the close of the festivities. There was
no doubt as to one's welcome and there was no limit to the length of
his stay. Isolation made opportunities for such social intercourse
rare and therefore everyone got more "kick" out of these occasions than
is possible in our swiftly moving, blase age.
Weather conditions changed while we danced: the wind eased off and the
mountain tops emerged from the clouds and drifting snow. I trailed up
the canyon I had struggled through in the darkness; and except for the
final stretch of the steep mountain above timberline the snowshoeing
was nothing except plain hard work. In some places the wind had packed
the snow hard; again it was soft so that I sank knee deep at every
step. In the soft snow, where there was a steep slope to negotiate,
each snowshoe had to be lifted high, until my knee almost touched my
chest. The webs accumulated snow, too, until each shoe weighed many
additional pounds.
But the fairyland that I found on top of the Divide was worth all the
effort required to reach it. It was the first time I had found the
wind quiet; every peak stood out sharp and clear, many miles away
seemed but a few minutes' walk. There were none of the usual objects
that help estimate distance; no horses or cattle, no trees or trails,
nothing but unbroken space. The glare of the sun was blinding; even my
very dark snow glasses failed to protect my eyes.
The silence was tremendous. Always before there had been the wind
shrieking and crashing. Now there was not a sound, not a breath of
wind, not even a snow-swirl. I shouted, and my voice came back across
the canyon without the usual blurring; each word was distinct. I
whistled softly and other echoes came hurrying back. Never have I felt
so alone, or so small. As far as the eye could reach were mountains,
one beyond the other. Near by loomed the jagged Never-summer range,
while farther down the Divide Gray's and Terry's peaks stood out; then
the Collegiate range--Harvard, Yale and Princeton.
In the midst of my reverie there came a creaking, groaning sound from
almost beneath my feet. I had paused on the brink of the same
precipice over which I had fallen on my way to Grand Lake. Before I
could move, the snow-cornice broke away and several hundred feet of it
crashed down the cliff. In places it appeared to be ten to forty feet
thick. It must have weighed thousands of tons. It fell with a
swishing roar, with occasional sharp reports, as loose rocks dropped to
the clean-swept ledges of the cliff. It seemed to explode as it
struck, to fly into powder which filled the gorge between Flat top and
Hallett peaks.
The wind had drifted the snow over the edge of the precipice where some
of it had clung. Farther and farther it had crept out, overhanging the
abyss, its great weight slowly bending the cornice downward until it
had at last given way.
I shuddered a little at the awfulness of it; felt smaller than ever,
backed away from the rim of the canyon, and headed for home.
CHAPTER FIVE
TRAPPING--MOUNTAIN-TOP DWELLERS
Gold and fur have ever been beckoning sirens, luring men into the
unknown. As I have said, the famous trapper, Kit Carson, was the first
white man to look down upon the picturesque, mountain-guarded valley,
later known as Estes Park. From the foothills, he had followed up one
of the streams, seeking new fur-fields, until, after crossing the last
barrier range, he looked down upon a broad, river spangled park set
like a gem in the midst of the encircling peaks of the Divide, with
that sheer, pyramidal face of Long's Peak dominating all. We like to
think that these early adventurers appreciated the beauty of the
primitive lands they explored, but whether or not Carson thrilled at
that exquisite alpine panorama, he noted keenly the profusion of tracks
criss-crossing its green and white expanse, promising an abundance of
game, for he moved down into the region and at the foot of Long's Peak
built himself a rude log cabin. There he spent the winter trapping
beaver, and the following spring bargained with the Indians to help
pack out his catch. The walls, the hearth, and part of the stone
chimney still mark the site of that first cabin.
I selected the top of a high cliff overlooking these storied ruins for
the location of a cabin which I planned to build as soon as I could
manage it. I, too, would be a trapper, and though the beaver and other
fur-bearing animals were not nearly so numerous as they had been that
day, sixty years gone, when Carson first beheld their mountain
fastness, there still remained enough to make trapping interesting and
profitable. Game tracks still abounded, and notwithstanding that I was
a mere boy, inexperienced in woodcraft, I could distinguish that they
differed, even though I could classify only a few of them; coyote
tracks, I found, were very like a dog's; sheep, elk and deer tracks
were similar, yet easily distinguished from one another; bear left a
print like that of a baby's chubby foot. Yes, there was still a chance
for me!
As soon as I returned from the dance at Jim Oss's, I set about carrying
out my plans. I mushed over deep snow back into Wild Basin, to recover
the six traps I had abandoned there on that memorable first camp alone,
and found my tent crushed under six feet of drifted snow and the region
still deserted by game. I set the traps out in the vicinity of the
home ranch. Every few days I inspected them, only to find them empty.
Indeed, over a period of long weeks I caught but one mink, two weasels
and three coyotes. The Parson kindly said the country was trapped out;
still, I suspected my lack of skill was responsible for my scanty catch.
One morning in following up my trap line, I found a trap missing. In
the sand about the aspen tree to which it had been anchored were coyote
tracks. Ignorantly fearless, I set out to track down the miscreant.
The trail led down toward a forest, where dense thickets of new-growth
lodge-pole pines livened the stark, fire-killed trees. As I neared the
forest, the tracks were farther apart and dimmer, but here and there
were scratches on fallen logs as though a trap had been dragged across
them; moreover, there were occasional spots where the earth was greatly
disturbed, showing that the animal had no doubt threshed about in his
efforts to dislodge the trap, caught on the snags or bowlders.
No denying I thrilled from head to foot over the prospect of meeting
Mr. Coyote face to face! If he showed fight I'd snatch my six-shooter
from its holster (forgotten was its faithless performance in Wild
Basin!) and show him I was not to be trifled with. Of course, I'd aim
to hit him where the shot would do least damage to his fur; it would be
more valuable for marketing.
Just then I heard the clank of the trap chain. Heart pounding, hands
trembling, I shakily drew my gun, and cautiously advanced. Around the
corner of a bowlder I came upon a large coyote, with a black stripe
running along his back, squatting in an old game trail, apparently
little concerned either at my presence or at his own dilemma. As I
stumbled toward him, he faced about, and without taking his eyes off
me, kept jerking the trap which was wedged between a root and a
bowlder. Twenty feet away I stopped, and with what coolness I could
command in my excitement, took aim and fired. The bullet only ruffled
the heavy fur at his shoulder. Determined to finish him next shot, I
edged nearer. My target refused to stand still--he sprang the full
length of his chain again and again, striving to dislodge the trap.
Finally it jerked free and he was off like a rabbit, despite his
dragging burden, leaping logs or scuttling beneath them, zigzagging
along the crooked trail, dodging bowlders, tree limbs and my frequent
but ineffective fire. For I madly pursued him though hard put to keep
up his pace.
Suddenly the trap caught again and jerked its victim to an abrupt stop.
He whirled about and faced me defiantly, eyes blazing, fangs bared. I
reloaded my revolver, aimed--fired, aimed--fired again and again, until
the cylinder was empty, without once hitting him.
I began to think that, like old Tom, he led a charmed life. Just then
he jerked loose, and once more the chase was on. I reloaded my
six-shooter and fired on the run, shouting excitedly. He ran on with
tireless, automatic motion, apparently as unperturbed as he was
impervious to bullets.
All at once I discovered my belt empty--I had exhausted my cartridges!
Disgusted, I shoved my gun back into its holster, and, picking up a
stout club, ran after the coyote. Several times I was close enough to
hit him, but he deftly dodged or else sprang forward beyond reach.
Once when the trap caught and prisoned him an instant, I swung my club,
sure of ending the race, but it collided on a limb overhead and went
wide of the mark! Again I overtook the coyote as he struggled through
hindering bush, and, reaching forward, swung my bludgeon with all my
might and fell headlong upon him! I gave a terrified yell; my battered
hat flew off; I dropped my club. The coyote was out of sight before I
gained my feet!
Suddenly we popped out of the forest on the edge of a canyon; its sides
were smooth and almost bare. On this open ground, my quarry gained on
me by leaps and bounds. I spied a rock-slide below--great slabs that
had slid down from the cliff above--between openings amply large to
admit almost any animal. Once the coyote reached that slide, he would
escape. Panting loudly, I sprinted forward to overtake him.
The trap chain wedged unexpectedly, the coyote changed ends, and came
up facing me. I could not put on brakes quickly enough and skidded
almost into him. He sprang at my throat. As he launched upward I
glimpsed his flaming eyes and wide-open, fang-filled mouth. I do not
know what saved me; whether my desperate effort to reverse succeeded,
whether I dodged, or whether the restraining trap chain thwarted him.
As it was, his teeth grazed my face, leaving deep, red scars across my
chin.... His was the handsomest skin that adorned the walls of my
cabin when that dream eventually became a reality. I did not sell the
skin as purposed--not, however, because my bullets had ruined it for
marketing!
[Illustration: I glimpsed his flaming eyes and wide-open, fang-filled
mouth.]
In common with all small boys, I was the hero of my dreams, and in my
fancy saw myself growing into a magnified composite of Nimrod, Robin
Hood, Kit Carson, and Buffalo Bill, all molded into one mighty man who
dwarfed the original individuals! I confess reality was retarding my
growth considerably. It looked as though Kit Carson would go unrivaled
by me as a trapper; certainly the shades of Nimrod and Robin Hood had
no cause to be uneasy lest I win their laurels from them, and as for
Buffalo Bill--both the Buffalo and the redskins, whose scalps had
always dangled in fancy from my belt in revenge for their plaguing my
mother on her brave drive with my sick father across those long
unsettled miles, were far beyond my puny vengeance.