[Illustration: "THE OLD, OLD STORY."]
MR. DIDE,
HIS
VACATION IN COLORADO.
BY
LEWIS B. FRANCE,
AUTHOR OF "ROD AND LINE," "MOUNTAIN
TRAILS AND PARKS IN COLORADO," ETC.
STATE JOURNAL PRINTING COMPANY,
PRINTERS AND STEREOTYPERS,
MADISON, WIS.
COPYRIGHTED, 1890,
BY
L. B. FRANCE.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
MR. DIDE: HIS VACATION IN COLORADO, 7
A Cold Slot, 7
A Warmer Trail, 17
Twin Lakes, 28
Through the Saguache Range, 40
Joshua, 51
On White River, 65
On the South Fork, 77
Sport, 88
Success and--Success, 102
Vapor, 114
Pike's Peak, 125
For him who seeks her solitudes in sympathy, Nature has always a
welcome. What we call storms are but her periods of house-cleaning,
and the sunshine of her smile lurks in every humor; with love it is
easy to adapt ourselves to her moods and with prudence we may avoid
her missiles.
MR. DIDE:
HIS VACATION IN COLORADO.
CHAPTER I.
A COLD SLOT.
The upper end of the mercury is anchored, say in the vicinity of twenty
degrees below zero, and there are two feet of snow on the ground. I
have to travel a hundred miles or more from Denver; one mile on foot,
the others by rail.
As I make my way down street early in the morning, with the rising
sun turning the white peaks into rose-color, I feel disposed to halt
and watch the changes. But I am denied the privilege of even walking
slowly; I must wipe the tears from my eyes and hurry. The few people I
meet seem cheery, and they steam along, reminding me of the cigarette
smokers; the men wear icicles for beards, and one woman has a luminous
nose, and I think is aware of it, for she holds her handkerchief to her
face as she passes by. No one says good-morning--we have become too
metropolitan for such courtesies--but every one expresses by a glance,
"Cold! ain't it?" and steams on. One should always keep one's mouth
shut on such a morning; one's inspirations will always be full and the
shoulders thrown back without trying--that is if one be healthy. There
is not the faintest indication of a breeze, and the iron tires of a
heavy freight wagon, laboring slowly along, ring out like the music of
tiny bells, close and smooth, as though the master of the baton were
directing a legato movement. The driver walks by the side of his team,
thrashing one hand against his shoulder and holding the lines with the
other; the horses are half hidden in the steam of their own providing
and are frosted even to their flanks. Thunder and Mars! but it is cold!
and a cloud of cold air rushes into the car with me. The ebony deity
presiding over the coach looked on with a wide, white smile as I thawed
my beard.
"Ain't gwine fishin' to-day?"
He seemed a little puzzled when I said I might indulge in a bit of
angling. Perhaps he had never fished through the ice, or was not aware
that the art of angling depended upon other things than bait and
hook and line, or was not aware, in fact, that these tools might be
dispensed with, and the votary of the gentle art still be successful.
[Illustration: PIKE'S PEAK FROM MANITOU PARK.]
The only other occupants of the car were two young ladies, neither
of them over twenty years of age, I dare be sworn, and behind whom
the porter assigned me a seat. They sat facing each other. One of
these young ladies was a blonde with fluffy hair daintily banged, her
cheeks were rosy and she reveled in the faintest intimation of brevity
of nose--just enough of heavenward proclivity to make it cunning. Her
companion was a brunette in glasses, possessing a delicate creamy
complexion and a close-fitting dainty ear, not marred by a ring or
a place for one. I speak of one ear, the one immediately under my
observation. I subsequently learned that she was endowed with a pair,
and they were mates, very pretty, and uninfluenced by the cold, of a
delicate pink that seemed to rival the exquisite tint of sea shells I
had seen; a very bewitching ear, an ear into which a lover--but perhaps
I would better not follow the lead of that ear any farther, and will
let go before I fall into trouble. Being absorbed I did not catch what
the blonde said to the ear, but having released myself, I took in the
reply:
"Darwin's theory is, to my mind, correct, and the strongest argument in
favor of immortality within my experience."
An experience of less than twenty years! Think of it!
The blonde put on a look of deeper interest; as for myself, a feeling
of weak dependence began to creep over me and finally settled in my
back. The brunette continued:
"We know that man is an improvement on the monkey, and we know how
imperfect man is even in his best estate--are we not authorized in
believing that the next change will present something grander?"
I began to wonder whether some man had not failed in his contract
with this young lady. The glasses suggested Boston, and yet she was
too young for a vagrant schoolma'am or a victim in a desert world. I
debated concerning the man and whether I should blame him, if one were
in the case, and my wonder quite resolved itself into a conviction in
favor of the man. To set my mind at rest if possible, I changed my seat
to one behind the blonde. When I saw the pretty, quiet face, and the
eloquent, brown eyes appealing to the blonde for approval, I was more
in doubt than ever. To get out of the labyrinth I went into the smoking
room and took counsel of my briar-root and the foot-hills.
Snow everywhere! The willows are dressed in gray and the pines are
almost black; the purple haze of summer has changed into a veil of
white and the shrub oaks are garmented in ragged coats of brown. No
living thing, except the snow-birds, is in sight between me and the
hills, piling tier upon tier to the summit of the range. It is not
like looking back from the front seat in the pit upon a grand-opera
night--the colors are all sober. Where the rugged cliffs are too
precipitous for the snow to cling, I find Titanic jewels with white
settings. It is a good time to learn, in truth, how rough and broken
are the outlines that the summer's breath makes smooth. Stripped of
their finery their majesty is sterner, that is all, but they are still
to be reverenced--there is the difference, merely, between the smile
and the frown of one we know to be worthy of love, but always lovable.
The fences make the white fields look like great, clean napkins edged
with black lace and spread out smoothly, to dry.
As we get farther away from the Platte Valley a bird of evil omen shows
himself, looking blacker, if possible, as he hovers over this ocean of
white. I wonder what has become of the ravens? In the early days they
were plentiful and tame, coming into town and perching on the fences
and housetops, alert for food, and in the evening, before twilight
would set in they were wont to string along overhead, upon lazy wing,
to their roost up the river. We must have become too metropolitan also
for these sable friends and they are going out with the pioneers! When
I saw this solitary representative of the old abundance, he brought
to me the remembrance of other changes--I realized thirty miles an
hour and steam, instead of ten miles and mules; a luxurious car
with scarcely a vibration, instead of the swaying Concord redolent
of old leather, musty hay and the stables. Overcoats, buffalo shoes
and blankets are necessaries no longer. Yet the old coach possessed
some excellent attributes: it was a great leveller of artificial
barriers; its patrons were democratic in its presence if never so
before or after; they were rarely otherwise than jolly; the emergency
demanded cheerfulness, as hardship always does if one would succeed in
overcoming obstacles; one might not sit and dream with open eyes in
such surroundings. Shadows of familiar faces are flitting about me,
very eloquent they are in their silence. And now and then will come
one, and another, demanding deeper recognition and whose ways are so
sweet to remember that I forget all except the old coaching days and--
But I declare! while I have been drifting, the window has grown
dim--it must be with the frost--and I am compelled to wipe it off that
I may see a bevy of snow-buntings; bright little fellows in mottled
jackets and black neckties. They easily make, in their billowy flight,
twenty-five miles an hour. The train is going at that rate, or more,
and they keep along with it as if to cheer us on the road for a few
hundred yards and then alight to have their places taken by others.
They are very numerous, thanks to some one who loved them and placed a
penalty in the statute books against their destruction.
Down there in a hollow, sheltered by the bluffs, are a cabin and a
corral, and a few stacks of hay protected by a fence. Outside stand
three creatures drawn up, and shivering, it must be, wishfully feeding
their minds on the unattainable luxury under their noses. I would like
to halt long enough to drive the owner out of bed, or away from his
fire, with hydraulic appliances. A magpie alights on the back of one
of the cows, perhaps to inspire her with hope and to remind her that
summer will come again.
As we climb toward the summit of the Divide I catch a glimpse of one
of my castles. When travelling by I always look out for this property
of mine, to assure myself that it has not been trespassed upon. Some
one has taken the liberty of levelling a camera at it, and bestowing
a name upon it, thinking it deserted, perhaps, and assuming a claim
upon it for that reason. But it is not, nor has it ever been deserted
since my knowledge of it; my people are always there. Sweeping round a
certain curve in the road the grand pile, without moat or drawbridge,
now comes into full view. Its white turrets shine in the morning sun
and its grand doorway is always open as a token of the hospitality ever
to be found in its spacious halls. It is the old-time hospitality, of
course--say of the feudal age--rude, maybe, but bestowed with royal
munificence, to be in keeping with the precincts. Claw-hammer coats,
vests of percale cut low, and glaring shirt fronts of linen would be
novelties amid the concourse of mailed cavaliers and hardy retainers
wont to gather here. Its great banqueting hall is decked with ghosts
of armor and the rugged walls are hung with rude implements in keeping
with the ghosts; the skins of beasts serve as beds or floor cloths as
occasion may demand; rough benches and a long table with no sign of
covering; a high stiff-backed chair at the end above the salt, where
may sit the master. The broad fireplace is aglow this cold day and the
fire roars and sparkles up the wide chimney, and dogs lie dozing in its
cheerful warmth, while leather-clothed servitors clank back and forth.
But how quickly the dogs awake and all the surroundings vanish at the
sound of the shriek ahead of me! We have seen much at the rate we are
going--and it is better so--we are not moving backward; the broadcloth
claw-hammer is, after all, an improvement on the coat of mail.
My other grand estate south of the Divide is also encumbered with
the winter mantle, and because of it the red ruins over under the
foot-hills are more sharply defined. The red castle on the left
with its arched porchway stands out grandly against the clear blue
background. But there is no one at home, the place seems deserted for
the time; the usual inmates may be away on a hunt in those groves
beyond, or perhaps they may have vanished for the same reason as did
those we found on the north side.
The air grows warmer as we go on. Above the Peak a few clouds are
hovering, and I notice above the summits of the lower mountains two
long, slender clouds of a deadwood color. Presently these join at one
end, and soon the other ends swing together and form an oval with a
stretch of blue between, and there is a lake above the horizon. It
requires no stretch of the imagination; on the contrary, I find I am
compelled to satisfy my mind that one part of the cloud must be above
the other, else the highest is the near shore, in the plane of my
vision, and I look across a sheet of blue water to the farther side. An
irregular rift in one place makes a cove, and on the bank is a cabin,
and around the edges is fallen timber. Thanks to the absent winds, I
am for twenty minutes or more treated to this view of a lake and its
wooded surroundings, made of a strip of blue sky and a cloud.
It is not necessary that I disclose where I had dinner this day--there
were no bills of fare printed, and as I took a seat at one of the small
tables I saw that the others were not crowded. It was evidently a cold
day for the landlord as well as the rest of us. At one of the tables
stood the blonde, her hat and cloak off, and a dainty white apron, with
frills and pockets, tied about her waist. She was evidently not here in
the character of a guest. Before I had time to wonder why she might be
here in the other capacity, a voice at my shoulder said rapidly:
"Roast-beef-boiled-mutton-caper-sauce-pork-and-beans-veal-pie."
I thought I recognized the tones and squared myself to take in the
glasses and brown eyes of the brunette. While I studied them she
said it all over again in the same key and without pause, as though
under conviction that she would forget a part if she failed in the
stereotyped manner. She smiled at the end of the second stanza and
I saw that her teeth were very white and even--were pretty, indeed,
and so was the smile. She sang it again, a note higher, and at the
conclusion I could trace only the ghost of the smile. It was time for
me to respond. I was painfully aware of it, but somehow I persisted in
wandering away thousands of ages and drifting about in the mysteries of
the primary period, barking my shins on the azoic rocks trying to find
the starting-point and to trace the connection.
"Will you tell me what you want?"
The mood was now imperative. I said I could not tell her that, but I
would take pork and beans.
[Illustration: CASCADE.]