A LADY'S LIFE
IN THE
ROCKY MOUNTAINS

Isabella L. Bird

Introduction by
Ann Ronald

University of Nevada,best toy cars for toddlers Reno

To My Sister,
to whom
these letters were originally written,
they are now
affectionately dedicated.

Contents

Introduction, by Ann Ronald

LETTER I

Lake Tahoe—Morning in San Francisco—Dust—A Pacificmail-train—Digger Indians—Cape Horn—A mountain hotel—A pioneer—ATruckee livery stable—A mountain stream—Finding a bear—Tahoe.

LETTER II

A lady's "get-up"—Grizzly bears—The "Gem of the Sierras"—A tragictale—A carnival of color.

LETTER III

A Temple of Morpheus—Utah—A "God-forgotten" town—A distressedcouple—Dog villages—A temperance colony—A Colorado inn—The bugpest—Fort Collins.

LETTER IV

A plague of flies—A melancholy charioteer—The Foot Hills—A mountainboarding-house—A dull life—"Being agreeable"—Climate ofColorado—Soroche and snakes.

LETTER V

A dateless day—"Those hands of yours"—A Puritan—Perseveringshiftlessness—The house-mother—Family worship—A grim Sunday—A"thick-skulled Englishman"—A morning call—Another atmosphere—TheGreat Lone Land—"Ill found"—A log camp—Bad footing forhorses—Accidents—Disappointment.

LETTER VI

A bronco mare—An accident—Wonderland—A sad story—The children ofthe Territories—Hard greed—Halcyon hours—Smartness—Old-fashionedprejudices—The Chicago colony—Good luck—Three notes of admiration—Agood horse—The St. Vrain—The Rocky Mountains at last—"MountainJim"—A death hug—Estes Park.

LETTER VII

Personality of Long's Peak—"Mountain Jim"—Lake of the Lilies—Asilent forest—The camping ground—"Ring"—A lady's bower—Dawn andsunrise—A glorious view—Links of diamonds—The ascent of thePeak—The "Dog's Lift"—Suffering from thirst—The descent—The bivouac.

LETTER VIII

Estes Park—Big game—"Parks" in Colorado—Magnificent scenery—Flowersand pines—An awful road—Our log cabin—Griffith Evans—A miniatureworld—Our topics—A night alarm—A skunk—Morning glories—Dailyroutine—The panic—"Wait for the wagon"—A musical evening.

LETTER IX

"Please Ma'ams"—A desperado—A cattle hunt—The muster—A mad cow—Asnowstorm—Snowed up—Birdie—The Plains—A prairie schooner—Denver—Afind—Plum Creek—"Being agreeable"—Snowbound—The grey mare.

LETTER X

A white world—Bad traveling—A millionaire's home—PleasantPark—Perry's Park—Stock-raising—A cattle king—The ArkansasDivide—Birdie's sagacity—Luxury—Monument Park—Deference toprejudice—A death scene—The Manitou—A loose shoe—The UtePass—Bergens Park—A settler's home—Hayden's Divide—Sharpcriticism—Speaking the truth.

LETTER XI

Tarryall Creek—The Red Range—Excelsior—Importunate pedlars—Snow andheat—A bison calf—Deep drifts—South Park—The Great Divide—ComancheBill—Difficulties—Hall's Gulch—A Lord Dundreary—Ridiculous fears.

LETTER XII

Deer Valley—Lynch law—Vigilance committees—The silver spruce—Tasteand abstinence—The whisky fiend—Smartness—Turkey Creek Canyon—TheIndian problem—Public rascality—Friendly meetings—The way to theGolden City—A rising settlement—Clear CreekCanyon—Staging—Swearing—A mountain town.

LETTER XIII

The blight of mining—Green Lake—GoldenCity—Benighted—Vertigo—Boulder Canyon—Financial straits—A hardride—The last cent—A bachelor's home—"Mountain Jim"—A surprise—Anight arrival—Making the best of it—Scanty fare.

LETTER XIV

A dismal ride—A desperado's tale—"Lost! Lost! Lost!"—Winterglories—Solitude—Hard times—Intense cold—A pack of wolves—Thebeaver dams—Ghastly scenes—Venison steaks—Our evenings.

LETTER XV

A whisky slave—The pleasures of monotony—The mountain lion—"Anothermouth to feed"—A tiresome boy—An outcast—Thanksgiving Day—Thenewcomer—A literary humbug—Milking a dry cow—Trout-fishing—Asnow-storm—A desperado's den.

LETTER XVI

A harmonious home—Intense cold—A purple sun—A grim jest—A perilousride—Frozen eyelids—Longmount—The pathless prairie—Hardships ofemigrant life—A trapper's advice—The Little Thompson—Evans and "Jim."

LETTER XVII

Woman's mission—The last morning—Crossing the St. Vrain—Miller—TheSt. Vrain again—Crossing the prairie—"Jim's" dream—"Keepingstrangers"—The inn kitchen—A reputed child-eater—Notoriety—A quietdance—"Jim's" resolve—The frost-fall—An unfortunate introduction.

Letter I

Lake Tahoe—Morning in San Francisco—Dust—A Pacificmail-train—Digger Indians—Cape Horn—A mountain hotel—A pioneer—ATruckee livery stable—A mountain stream—Finding a bear—Tahoe.

LAKE TAHOE, September 2.

I have found a dream of beauty at which one might look all one's lifeand sigh. Not lovable, like the Sandwich Islands, but beautiful in itsown way! A strictly North American beauty—snow-splotched mountains,huge pines, red-woods, sugar pines, silver spruce; a crystallineatmosphere, waves of the richest color; and a pine-hung lake whichmirrors all beauty on its surface. Lake Tahoe is before me, a sheet ofwater twenty-two miles long by ten broad, and in some places 1,700 feetdeep. It lies at a height of 6,000 feet, and the snow-crowned summitswhich wall it in are from 8,000 to 11,000 feet in altitude. The air iskeen and elastic. There is no sound but the distant and slightlymusical ring of the lumberer's axe.

It is a weariness to go back, even in thought, to the clang of SanFrancisco, which I left in its cold morning fog early yesterday,driving to the Oakland ferry through streets with side-walks heapedwith thousands of cantaloupe and water-melons, tomatoes, cucumbers,squashes, pears, grapes, peaches, apricots—all of startling size ascompared with any I ever saw before. Other streets were piled withsacks of flour, left out all night, owing to the security from rain atthis season. I pass hastily over the early part of the journey, thecrossing the bay in a fog as chill as November, the number of "lunchbaskets," which gave the car the look of conveying a great picnicparty, the last view of the Pacific, on which I had looked for nearly ayear, the fierce sunshine and brilliant sky inland, the look of longRAINLESSNESS, which one may not call drought, the valleys with sidescrimson with the poison oak, the dusty vineyards, with great purpleclusters thick among the leaves, and between the vines great dustymelons lying on the dusty earth. From off the boundless harvest fieldsthe grain was carried in June, and it is now stacked in sacks along thetrack, awaiting freightage. California is a "land flowing with milkand honey." The barns are bursting with fullness. In the dustyorchards the apple and pear branches are supported, that they may notbreak down under the weight of fruit; melons, tomatoes, and squashes ofgigantic size lie almost unheeded on the ground; fat cattle, gorgedalmost to repletion, shade themselves under the oaks; superb "red"horses shine, not with grooming, but with condition; and thriving farmseverywhere show on what a solid basis the prosperity of the "GoldenState" is founded. Very uninviting, however rich, was the blazingSacramento Valley, and very repulsive the city of Sacramento, which, ata distance of 125 miles from the Pacific, has an elevation of onlythirty feet. The mercury stood at 103 degrees in the shade, and thefine white dust was stifling.

In the late afternoon we began the ascent of the Sierras, whose sawlikepoints had been in sight for many miles. The dusty fertility was allleft behind, the country became rocky and gravelly, and deeply scoredby streams bearing the muddy wash of the mountain gold mines down tothe muddier Sacramento. There were long broken ridges and deepravines, the ridges becoming longer, the ravines deeper, the pinesthicker and larger, as we ascended into a cool atmosphere of exquisitepurity, and before 6 P.M. the last traces of cultivation and the lasthardwood trees were left behind.[1]

[1] In consequence of the unobserved omission of a date to my lettershaving been pointed out to me, I take this opportunity of stating thatI traveled in Colorado in the autumn and early winter of 1873, on myway to England from the Sandwich Islands. The letters are a faithfulpicture of the country and state of society as it then was; but friendswho have returned from the West within the last six months tell me thatthings are rapidly changing, that the frame house is replacing the logcabin, and that the footprints of elk and bighorn may be sought for invain on the dewy slopes of Estes Park.

I. L. B.

(Author's note to the third edition, January 16, 1880.)

At Colfax, a station at a height of 2,400 feet, I got out and walkedthe length of the train. First came two great gaudy engines, theGrizzly Bear and the White Fox, with their respective tenders loadedwith logs of wood, the engines with great, solitary, reflecting lampsin front above the cow guards, a quantity of polished brass-work,comfortable glass houses, and well-stuffed seats for theengine-drivers. The engines and tenders were succeeded by a baggagecar, the latter loaded with bullion and valuable parcels, and in chargeof two "express agents." Each of these cars is forty-five feet long.Then came two cars loaded with peaches and grapes; then two "silverpalace" cars, each sixty feet long; then a smoking car, at that timeoccupied mainly by Chinamen; and then five ordinary passenger cars,with platforms like all the others, making altogether a train about 700feet in length.

The platforms of the four front cars were clustered over with DiggerIndians, with their squaws, children, and gear. They are perfectsavages, without any aptitude for even aboriginal civilization, and arealtogether the most degraded of the ill-fated tribes which are dyingout before the white races. They were all very diminutive, five feetone inch being, I should think, about the average height, with flatnoses, wide mouths, and black hair, cut straight above the eyes andhanging lank and long at the back and sides. The squaws wore theirhair thickly plastered with pitch, and a broad band of the same acrosstheir noses and cheeks. They carried their infants on their backs,strapped to boards. The clothing of both sexes was a ragged, dirtycombination of coarse woolen cloth and hide, the moccasins beingunornamented. They were all hideous and filthy, and swarming withvermin. The men carried short bows and arrows, one of them, whoappeared to be the chief, having a lynx's skin for a quiver. A few hadfishing tackle, but the bystanders said that they lived almost entirelyupon grasshoppers. They were a most impressive incongruity in themidst of the tokens of an omnipotent civilization.

The light of the sinking sun from that time glorified the Sierras, andas the dew fell, aromatic odors made the still air sweet. On a singletrack, sometimes carried on a narrow ledge excavated from the mountainside by men lowered from the top in baskets, overhanging ravines from2,000 to 3,000 feet deep, the monster train SNAKED its way upwards,stopping sometimes in front of a few frame houses, at others wherenothing was to be seen but a log cabin with a few Chinamen hangingabout it, but where trails on the sides of the ravines pointed to agold country above and below. So sharp and frequent are the curves onsome parts of the ascent, that on looking out of the window one couldseldom see more than a part of the train at once. At Cape Horn, wherethe track curves round the ledge of a precipice 2,500 feet in depth, itis correct to be frightened, and a fashion of holding the breath andshutting the eyes prevails, but my fears were reserved for the crossingof a trestle bridge over a very deep chasm, which is itself approachedby a sharp curve. This bridge appeared to be overlapped by the cars soas to produce the effect of looking down directly into a wild gulch,with a torrent raging along it at an immense depth below.

Shivering in the keen, frosty air near the summit pass of the Sierras,we entered the "snow-sheds," wooden galleries, which for about fiftymiles shut out all the splendid views of the region, as given indioramas, not even allowing a glimpse of "the Gem of the Sierras," thelovely Donner Lake. One of these sheds is twenty-seven miles long. Ina few hours the mercury had fallen from 103 degrees to 29 degrees, andwe had ascended 6,987 feet in 105 miles! After passing through thesheds, we had several grand views of a pine forest on fire beforereaching Truckee at 11 P.M. having traveled 258 miles. Truckee, thecenter of the "lumbering region" of the Sierras, is usually spoken ofas "a rough mountain town," and Mr. W. had told me that all the roughsof the district congregated there, that there were nightly pistolaffrays in bar-rooms, etc., but as he admitted that a lady was sure ofrespect, and Mr. G. strongly advised me to stay and see the lakes, Igot out, much dazed, and very stupid with sleep, envying the people inthe sleeping car, who were already unconscious on their luxuriouscouches. The cars drew up in a street—if street that could be calledwhich was only a wide, cleared space, intersected by rails, with hereand there a stump, and great piles of sawn logs bulking big in themoonlight, and a number of irregular clap-board, steep-roofed houses,many of them with open fronts, glaring with light and crowded with men.We had pulled up at the door of a rough Western hotel, with a partiallyopen front, being a bar-room crowded with men drinking and smoking, andthe space between it and the cars was a moving mass of loafers andpassengers. On the tracks, engines, tolling heavy bells, were mightilymoving, the glare from their cyclopean eyes dulling the light of aforest which was burning fitfully on a mountain side; and on openspaces great fires of pine logs were burning cheerily, with groups ofmen round them. A band was playing noisily, and the unholy sound oftom-toms was not far off. Mountains—the Sierras of many a firesidedream—seemed to wall in the town, and great pines stood out, sharp andclear cut, against a sky in which a moon and stars were shiningfrostily.

It was a sharp frost at that great height, and when an "irrepressiblenigger," who seemed to represent the hotel establishment, deposited meand my carpetbag in a room which answered for "the parlor," I was gladto find some remains of pine knots still alight in the stove. A mancame in and said that when the cars were gone he would try to get me aroom, but they were so full that it would be a very poor one. Thecrowd was solely masculine. It was then 11:30 P.M., and I had not hada meal since 6 A.M.; but when I asked hopefully for a hot supper, withtea, I was told that no supper could be got at that hour; but in halfan hour the same man returned with a small cup of cold, weak tea, and asmall slice of bread, which looked as if it had been much handled.

I asked the Negro factotum about the hire of horses, and presently aman came in from the bar who, he said, could supply my needs. Thisman, the very type of a Western pioneer, bowed, threw himself into arocking-chair, drew a spittoon beside him, cut a fresh quid of tobacco,began to chew energetically, and put his feet, cased in miry highboots, into which his trousers were tucked, on the top of the stove.He said he had horses which would both "lope" and trot, that someladies preferred the Mexican saddle, that I could ride alone in perfectsafety; and after a route had been devised, I hired a horse for twodays. This man wore a pioneer's badge as one of the earliest settlersof California, but he had moved on as one place after another hadbecome too civilized for him, "but nothing," he added, "was likely tochange much in Truckee." I was afterwards told that the usual regularhours of sleep are not observed there. The accommodation is toolimited for the population of 2,000,[2] which is masculine mainly, andis liable to frequent temporary additions, and beds are occupiedcontinuously, though by different occupants, throughout the greaterpart of the twenty-four hours. Consequently I found the bed and roomallotted to me quite tumbled looking. Men's coats and sticks werehanging up, miry boots were littered about, and a rifle was in onecorner. There was no window to the outer air, but I slept soundly,being only once awoke by an increase of the same din in which I hadfallen asleep, varied by three pistol shots fired in rapid succession.

[2] Nelson's Guide to the Central Pacific Railroad.

This morning Truckee wore a totally different aspect. The crowds ofthe night before had disappeared. There were heaps of ashes where thefires had been. A sleepy German waiter seemed the only person aboutthe premises, the open drinking saloons were nearly empty, and only afew sleepy-looking loafers hung about in what is called the street. Itmight have been Sunday; but they say that it brings a great accessionof throng and jollity. Public worship has died out at present; work isdiscontinued on Sunday, but the day is given up to pleasure. Putting aminimum of indispensables into a bag, and slipping on my Hawaiianriding dress[3] over a silk skirt, and a dust cloak over all, Istealthily crossed the plaza to the livery stable, the largest buildingin Truckee, where twelve fine horses were stabled in stalls on eachside of a broad drive. My friend of the evening before showed me his"rig," three velvet-covered side-saddles almost without horns. Someladies, he said, used the horn of the Mexican saddle, but none "in thepart" rode cavalier fashion. I felt abashed. I could not ride anydistance in the conventional mode, and was just going to give up thissplendid "ravage," when the man said, "Ride your own fashion; here, atTruckee, if anywhere in the world, people can do as they like."Blissful Truckee! In no time a large grey horse was "rigged out" in ahandsome silver-bossed Mexican saddle, with ornamental leather tasselshanging from the stirrup guards, and a housing of black bear's-skin. Istrapped my silk skirt on the saddle, deposited my cloak in thecorn-bin, and was safely on the horse's back before his owner had timeto devise any way of mounting me. Neither he nor any of the loaferswho had assembled showed the slightest sign of astonishment, but allwere as respectful as possible.

[3] For the benefit of other lady travelers, I wish to explain that my"Hawaiian riding dress" is the "American Lady's Mountain Dress," ahalf-fitting jacket, a skirt reaching to the ankles, and full Turkishtrousers gathered into frills falling over the boots,—a thoroughlyserviceable and feminine costume for mountaineering and other roughtraveling, as in the Alps or any other part of the world.

I. L. B.

(Author's note to the second edition, November 27, 1879.)

Once on horseback my embarrassment disappeared, and I rode throughTruckee, whose irregular, steep-roofed houses and shanties, set down ina clearing and surrounded closely by mountain and forest, looked like atemporary encampment; passed under the Pacific Railroad; and then fortwelve miles followed the windings of the Truckee River, a clear,rushing, mountain stream, in which immense pine logs had gone agroundnot to be floated off till the next freshet, a loud-tongued, rollickingstream of ice-cold water, on whose banks no ferns or trailers hang, andwhich leaves no greenness along its turbulent progress.

All was bright with that brilliancy of sky and atmosphere, that blazeof sunshine and universal glitter, which I never saw till I came toCalifornia, combined with an elasticity in the air which removed alllassitude, and gives one spirit enough for anything. On either side ofthe Truckee great sierras rose like walls, castellated, embattled,rifted, skirted and crowned with pines of enormous size, the walls nowand then breaking apart to show some snow-slashed peak rising into aheaven of intense, unclouded, sunny blue. At this altitude of 6,000feet one must learn to be content with varieties of Coniferae, for,except for aspens, which spring up in some places where the pines havebeen cleared away, and for cotton-woods, which at a lower level fringethe streams, there is nothing but the bear cherry, the raspberry, thegooseberry, the wild grape, and the wild currant. None of these grewnear the Truckee, but I feasted my eyes on pines[4] which, though notso large as the Wellingtonia of the Yosemite, are really gigantic,attaining a height of 250 feet, their huge stems, the warm red of cedarwood, rising straight and branchless for a third of their height, theirdiameter from seven to fifteen feet, their shape that of a larch, butwith the needles long and dark, and cones a foot long. Pines cleft thesky; they were massed wherever level ground occurred; they stood overthe Truckee at right angles, or lay across it in prostrate grandeur.Their stumps and carcasses were everywhere; and smooth "shoots" on thesierras marked where they were shot down as "felled timber," to befloated off by the river. To them this wild region owes its scatteredpopulation, and the sharp ring of the lumberer's axe mingles with thecries of wild beasts and the roar of mountain torrents.

[4] Pinus Lambertina.

The track is a soft, natural, wagon road, very pleasant to ride on.The horse was much too big for me, and had plans of his own; but nowand then, where the ground admitted to it, I tried his heavy "lope"with much amusement. I met nobody, and passed nothing on the road buta freight wagon, drawn by twenty-two oxen, guided by three fine-lookingmen, who had some difficulty in making room for me to pass theirawkward convoy. After I had ridden about ten miles the road went up asteep hill in the forest, turned abruptly, and through the blue gloomof the great pines which rose from the ravine in which the river wasthen hid, came glimpses of two mountains, about 11,000 feet in height,whose bald grey summits were crowned with pure snow. It was one ofthose glorious surprises in scenery which make one feel as if one mustbow down and worship. The forest was thick, and had an undergrowth ofdwarf spruce and brambles, but as the horse had become fidgety and"scary" on the track, I turned off in the idea of taking a short cut,and was sitting carelessly, shortening my stirrup, when a great, dark,hairy beast rose, crashing and snorting, out of the tangle just infront of me. I had only a glimpse of him, and thought that myimagination had magnified a wild boar, but it was a bear. The horsesnorted and plunged violently, as if he would go down to the river, andthen turned, still plunging, up a steep bank, when, finding that I mustcome off, I threw myself off on the right side, where the ground roseconsiderably, so that I had not far to fall. I got up covered withdust, but neither shaken nor bruised. It was truly grotesque andhumiliating. The bear ran in one direction, and the horse in another.I hurried after the latter, and twice he stopped till I was close tohim, then turned round and cantered away. After walking about a milein deep dust, I picked up first the saddle-blanket and next my bag, andsoon came upon the horse, standing facing me, and shaking all over. Ithought I should catch him then, but when I went up to him he turnedround, threw up his heels several times, rushed off the track, gallopedin circles, bucking, kicking, and plunging for some time, and thenthrowing up his heels as an act of final defiance, went off at fullspeed in the direction of Truckee, with the saddle over his shouldersand the great wooden stirrups thumping his sides, while I trudgedignominiously along in the dust, laboriously carrying the bag andsaddle-blanket.

I walked for nearly an hour, heated and hungry, when to my joy I sawthe ox-team halted across the top of a gorge, and one of the teamstersleading the horse towards me. The young man said that, seeing thehorse coming, they had drawn the team across the road to stop him, andremembering that he had passed them with a lady on him, they fearedthat there had been an accident, and had just saddled one of their ownhorses to go in search of me. He brought me some water to wash thedust from my face, and re-saddled the horse, but the animal snorted andplunged for some time before he would let me mount, and then sidledalong in such a nervous and scared way, that the teamster walked forsome distance by me to see that I was "all right." He said that thewoods in the neighborhood of Tahoe had been full of brown and grizzlybears for some days, but that no one was in any danger from them. Itook a long gallop beyond the scene of my tumble to quiet the horse,who was most restless and troublesome.

Then the scenery became truly magnificent and bright with life.Crested blue-jays darted through the dark pines, squirrels in hundredsscampered through the forest, red dragon-flies flashed like "livinglight," exquisite chipmunks ran across the track, but only a dusty bluelupin here and there reminded me of earth's fairer children. Then theriver became broad and still, and mirrored in its transparent depthsregal pines, straight as an arrow, with rich yellow and green lichenclinging to their stems, and firs and balsam pines filling up thespaces between them, the gorge opened, and this mountain-girdled lakelay before me, with its margin broken up into bays and promontories,most picturesquely clothed by huge sugar pines. It lay dimpling andscintillating beneath the noonday sun, as entirely unspoilt as fifteenyears ago, when its pure loveliness was known only to trappers andIndians. One man lives on it the whole year round; otherwise earlyOctober strips its shores of their few inhabitants, and thereafter, forseven months, it is rarely accessible except on snowshoes. It neverfreezes. In the dense forests which bound it, and drape two-thirds ofits gaunt sierras, are hordes of grizzlies, brown bears, wolves, elk,deer, chipmunks, martens, minks, skunks, foxes, squirrels, and snakes.On its margin I found an irregular wooden inn, with a lumber-wagon atthe door, on which was the carcass of a large grizzly bear, shot behindthe house this morning. I had intended to ride ten miles farther, but,finding that the trail in some places was a "blind" one, and beingbewitched by the beauty and serenity of Tahoe, I have remained heresketching, reveling in the view from the veranda, and strolling in theforest. At this height there is frost every night of the year, and myfingers are benumbed.

The beauty is entrancing. The sinking sun is out of sight behind thewestern Sierras, and all the pine-hung promontories on this side of thewater are rich indigo, just reddened with lake, deepening here andthere into Tyrian purple. The peaks above, which still catch the sun,are bright rose-red, and all the mountains on the other side are pink;and pink, too, are the far-off summits on which the snow-drifts rest.Indigo, red, and orange tints stain the still water, which lies solemnand dark against the shore, under the shadow of stately pines. An hourlater, and a moon nearly full—not a pale, flat disc, but a radiantsphere—has wheeled up into the flushed sky. The sunset has passedthrough every stage of beauty, through every glory of color, throughriot and triumph, through pathos and tenderness, into a long, dreamy,painless rest, succeeded by the profound solemnity of the moonlight,and a stillness broken only by the night cries of beasts in thearomatic forests.

I. L. B.

Letter II

A lady's "get-up"—Grizzly bears—The "Gems of the Sierras"—A tragictale—A carnival of color.

CHEYENNE, WYOMING, September 7.

As night came on the cold intensified, and the stove in the parlorattracted every one. A San Francisco lady, much "got up" in paint,emerald green velvet, Brussels lace, and diamonds, rattled continuouslyfor the amusement of the company, giving descriptions of persons andscenes in a racy Western twang, without the slightest scruple as towhat she said. In a few years Tahoe will be inundated in summer withsimilar vulgarity, owing to its easiness of access. I sustained thereputation which our country-women bear in America by looking a"perfect guy"; and feeling that I was a salient point for the speaker'snext sally, I was relieved when the landlady, a ladylike Englishwoman,asked me to join herself and her family in the bar-room, where we hadmuch talk about the neighborhood and its wild beasts, especially bears.The forest is full of them, but they seem never to attack people unlesswhen wounded, or much aggravated by dogs, or a shebear thinks you aregoing to molest her young.

I dreamt of bears so vividly that I woke with a furry death hug at mythroat, but feeling quite refreshed. When I mounted my horse afterbreakfast the sun was high and the air so keen and intoxicating that,giving the animal his head, I galloped up and down hill, feelingcompletely tireless. Truly, that air is the elixir of life. I had aglorious ride back to Truckee. The road was not as solitary as the daybefore. In a deep part of the forest the horse snorted and reared, andI saw a cinnamon-colored bear with two cubs cross the track ahead ofme. I tried to keep the horse quiet that the mother might acquit me ofany designs upon her lolloping children, but I was glad when theungainly, long-haired party crossed the river. Then I met a team, thedriver of which stopped and said he was glad that I had not gone toCornelian Bay, it was such a bad trail, and hoped I had enjoyed Tahoe.The driver of another team stopped and asked if I had seen any bears.Then a man heavily armed, a hunter probably, asked me if I were theEnglish tourist who had "happened on" a "Grizzly" yesterday. Then Isaw a lumberer taking his dinner on a rock in the river, who "touchedhis hat" and brought me a draught of ice-cold water, which I couldhardly drink owing to the fractiousness of the horse, and gathered mesome mountain pinks, which I admired. I mention these little incidentsto indicate the habit of respectful courtesy to women which prevails inthat region. These men might have been excused for speaking in asomewhat free-and-easy tone to a lady riding alone, and in an unwontedfashion. Womanly dignity and manly respect for women are the salt ofsociety in this wild West.

My horse was so excitable that I avoided the center of Truckee, andskulked through a collection of Chinamen's shanties to the stable,where a prodigious roan horse, standing seventeen hands high, wasproduced for my ride to the Donner Lake. I asked the owner, who was asinterested in my enjoying myself as a West Highlander might have been,if there were not ruffians about who might make an evening ridedangerous. A story was current of a man having ridden through Truckeetwo evenings before with a chopped-up human body in a sack behind thesaddle, and hosts of stories of ruffianism are located there, rightlyor wrongly. This man said, "There's a bad breed of ruffians, but theugliest among them all won't touch you. There's nothing Western folkadmire so much as pluck in a woman." I had to get on a barrel before Icould reach the stirrup, and when I was mounted my feet only camehalf-way down the horse's sides. I felt like a fly on him. The roadat first lay through a valley without a river, but some swampishnessnourished some rank swamp grass, the first GREEN grass I have seen inAmerica; and the pines, with their red stems, looked beautiful risingout of it. I hurried along, and came upon the Donner Lake quitesuddenly, to be completely smitten by its beauty. It is only aboutthree miles long by one and a half broad, and lies hidden away amongmountains, with no dwellings on its shores but some deserted lumberers'cabins.[5] Its loneliness pleased me well. I did not see man, beast,or bird from the time I left Truckee till I returned. The mountains,which rise abruptly from the margin, are covered with dense pineforests, through which, here and there, strange forms of bare greyrock, castellated, or needle-like, protrude themselves. On theopposite side, at a height of about 6,000 feet, a grey, ascending line,from which rumbling, incoherent sounds occasionally proceeded, is seenthrough the pines. This is one of the snow-sheds of the PacificRailroad, which shuts out from travelers all that I was seeing. Thelake is called after Mr. Donner, who, with his family, arrived at theTruckee River in the fall of the year, in company with a party ofemigrants bound for California. Being encumbered with many cattle, helet the company pass on, and, with his own party of sixteen souls,which included his wife and four children, encamped by the lake. Inthe morning they found themselves surrounded by an expanse of snow, andafter some consultation it was agreed that the whole party except Mr.Donner who was unwell, his wife, and a German friend, should take thehorses and attempt to cross the mountain, which, after much peril, theysucceeded in doing; but, as the storm continued for several weeks, itwas impossible for any rescue party to succor the three who had beenleft behind. In the early spring, when the snow was hard enough fortraveling, a party started in quest, expecting to find the snow-boundalive and well, as they had cattle enough for their support, and, afterweeks of toil and exposure, they scaled the Sierras and reached theDonner Lake. On arriving at the camp they opened the rude door, andthere, sitting before the fire, they found the German, holding aroasted human arm and hand, which he was greedily eating. The rescueparty overpowered him, and with difficulty tore the arm from him. Ashort search discovered the body of the lady, minus the arm, frozen inthe snow, round, plump, and fair, showing that she was in perfecthealth when she met her fate. The rescuers returned to California,taking the German with them, whose story was that Mr. Donner died inthe fall, and that the cattle escaped, leaving them but little food,and that when this was exhausted Mrs. Donner died. The story nevergained any credence, and the truth oozed out that the German hadmurdered the husband, then brutally murdered the wife, and had seizedupon Donner's money. There were, however, no witnesses, and themurderer escaped with the enforced surrender of the money to the Donnerorphans.

[5] Visitors can now be accommodated at a tolerable mountain hotel.

This tragic story filled my mind as I rode towards the head of thelake, which became every moment grander and more unutterably lovely.The sun was setting fast, and against his golden light greenpromontories, wooded with stately pines, stood out one beyond anotherin a medium of dark rich blue, while grey bleached summits, peaked,turreted, and snow slashed, were piled above them, gleaming with amberlight. Darker grew the blue gloom, the dew fell heavily, aromaticodors floated on the air, and still the lofty peaks glowed with livinglight, till in one second it died off from them, leaving them with theashy paleness of a dead face. It was dark and cold under the mountainshadows, the frosty chill of the high altitude wrapped me round, thesolitude was overwhelming, and I reluctantly turned my horse's headtowards Truckee, often looking back to the ashy summits in theirunearthly fascination. Eastwards the look of the scenery was changingevery moment, while the lake for long remained "one burnished sheet ofliving gold," and Truckee lay utterly out of sight in a hollow filledwith lake and cobalt. Before long a carnival of color began which Ican only describe as delirious, intoxicating, a hardly bearable joy, atender anguish, an indescribable yearning, an unearthly music, rich inlove and worship. It lasted considerably more than an hour, and thoughthe road was growing very dark, and the train which was to take methence was fast climbing the Sierras, I could not ride faster than awalk.

The eastward mountains, which had been grey, blushed pale pink, thepink deepened into rose, and the rose into crimson, and then allsolidity etherealized away and became clear and pure as an amethyst,while all the waving ranges and the broken pine-clothed ridges belowetherealized too, but into a dark rich blue, and a strange effect ofatmosphere blended the whole into one perfect picture. It changed,deepened, reddened, melted, growing more and more wonderful, whileunder the pines it was night, till, having displayed itself for anhour, the jewelled peaks suddenly became like those of the Sierras, wanas the face of death. Far later the cold golden light lingered in thewest, with pines in relief against its purity, and where the rose lighthad glowed in the east, a huge moon upheaved itself, and the redflicker of forest fires luridly streaked the mountain sides near andfar off. I realized that night had come with its EERINESS, and puttingmy great horse into a gallop I clung on to him till I pulled him up inTruckee, which was at the height of its evening revelries—firesblazing out of doors, bar-rooms and saloons crammed, lights glaring,gaming tables thronged, fiddle and banjo in frightful discord, and theair ringing with ribaldry and profanity.

I. L. B.

Letter III

A Temple of Morpheus—Utah—A "God-forgotten" town—A distressedcouple—Dog villages—A temperance colony—A Colorado inn—The bugpest—Fort Collins.

CHEYENNE, WYOMING, September 8.

Precisely at 11 P.M. the huge Pacific train, with its heavy belltolling, thundered up to the door of the Truckee House, and onpresenting my ticket at the double door of a "Silver Palace" car, theslippered steward, whispering low, conducted me to my berth—aluxurious bed three and a half feet wide, with a hair mattress onsprings, fine linen sheets, and costly California blankets. Thetwenty-four inmates of the car were all invisible, asleep behind richcurtains. It was a true Temple of Morpheus. Profound sleep was theobject to which everything was dedicated. Four silver lamps hangingfrom the roof, and burning low, gave a dreamy light. On each side ofthe center passage, rich rep curtains, green and crimson, striped withgold, hung from silver bars running near the roof, and trailed on thesoft Axminster carpet. The temperature was carefully kept at 70degrees. It was 29 degrees outside. Silence and freedom from joltingwere secured by double doors and windows, costly and ingeniousarrangements of springs and cushions, and a speed limited to eighteenmiles an hour.

As I lay down, the gallop under the dark pines, the frosty moon, theforest fires, the flaring lights and roaring din of Truckee faded asdreams fade, and eight hours later a pure, pink dawn divulged a levelblasted region, with grey sage brush growing out of a soil encrustedwith alkali, and bounded on either side by low glaring ridges. Allthrough that day we traveled under a cloudless sky over solitaryglaring plains, and stopped twice at solitary, glaring frame houses,where coarse, greasy meals, infested by lazy flies, were provided at adollar per head. By evening we were running across the continent on abee line, and I sat for an hour on the rear platform of the rear car toenjoy the wonderful beauty of the sunset and the atmosphere. Far asone could see in the crystalline air there was nothing but desert. Thejagged Humboldt ranges flaming in the sunset, with snow in theirclefts, though forty-five miles off, looked within an easy canter. Thebright metal track, purpling like all else in the cool distance, wasall that linked one with Eastern or Western civilization.

The next morning, when the steward unceremoniously turned us out of ourberths soon after sunrise, we were running down upon the Great SaltLake, bounded by the white Wahsatch ranges. Along its shores, by meansof irrigation, Mormon industry has compelled the ground to yield finecrops of hay and barley; and we passed several cabins, from which, evenat that early hour, Mormons, each with two or three wives, were goingforth to their day's work. The women were ugly, and their shapelessblue dresses hideous. At the Mormon town of Ogden we changed cars, andagain traversed dusty plains, white and glaring, varied by muddystreams and rough, arid valleys, now and then narrowing into canyons.By common consent the windows were kept closed to exclude the finewhite alkaline dust, which is very irritating to the nostrils. Thejourney became more and more wearisome as we ascended rapidly overimmense plains and wastes of gravel destitute of mountain boundaries,and with only here and there a "knob" or "butte" [6] to break themonotony. The wheel-marks of the trail to Utah often ran parallel withthe track, and bones of oxen were bleaching in the sun, the remains ofthose "whose carcasses fell in the wilderness" on the long and drouthyjourney. The daybreak of to-day (Sunday) found us shivering at FortLaramie, a frontier post dismally situated at a height of 7,000 feet.Another 1,000 feet over gravelly levels brought us to Sherman, thehighest level reached by this railroad. From this point eastward thestreams fall into the Atlantic. The ascent of these apparently levelplateaus is called "crossing the Rocky Mountains," but I have seennothing of the range, except two peaks like teeth lying low on thedistant horizon. It became mercilessly cold; some people thought itsnowed, but I only saw rolling billows of fog. Lads passed through thecars the whole morning, selling newspapers, novels, cacti, lollypops,pop corn, pea nuts, and ivory ornaments, so that, having lost allreckoning of the days, I never knew that it was Sunday till the carspulled up at the door of the hotel in this detestable place.

[6] The mountains which bound the "valley of the Babbling Waters,"Utah, afford striking examples of these "knobs" or "buttes."

The surrounding plains were endless and verdureless. The scantygrasses were long ago turned into sun-cured hay by the fierce summerheats. There is neither tree nor bush, the sky is grey, the earthbuff, the air blae and windy, and clouds of coarse granitic dust sweepacross the prairie and smother the settlement. Cheyenne is describedas "a God-forsaken, God-forgotten place." That it forgets God iswritten on its face. It owes its existence to the railroad, and hasdiminished in population, but is a depot for a large amount of thenecessaries of life which are distributed through the scantily settleddistricts within distances of 300 miles by "freight wagons," each drawnby four or six horses or mules, or double that number of oxen. Attimes over 100 wagons, with double that number of teamsters, are inCheyenne at once. A short time ago it was a perfect pandemonium,mainly inhabited by rowdies and desperadoes, the scum of advancingcivilization; and murders, stabbings, shooting, and pistol affrays wereat times events of almost hourly occurrence in its drinking dens. Butin the West, when things reach their worst, a sharp and sure remedy isprovided. Those settlers who find the state of matters intolerable,organize themselves into a Vigilance Committee. "Judge Lynch," with afew feet of rope, appears on the scene, the majority crystallizes roundthe supporters of order, warnings are issued to obnoxious people,simply bearing a scrawl of a tree with a man dangling from it, withsuch words as "Clear out of this by 6 A.M., or——." A number of theworst desperadoes are tried by a yet more summary process than adrumhead court martial, "strung up," and buried ignominiously. I havebeen told that 120 ruffians were disposed of in this way here in asingle fortnight. Cheyenne is now as safe as Hilo, and the intervalbetween the most desperate lawlessness and the time when United Stateslaw, with its corruption and feebleness, comes upon the scene is one ofcomparative security and good order. Piety is not the forte ofCheyenne. The roads resound with atrocious profanity, and the rowdyismof the saloons and bar-rooms is repressed, not extirpated.

The population, once 6,000, is now about 4,000. It is an ill-arrangedset of frame houses and shanties [7] and rubbish heaps, and offal ofdeer and antelope, produce the foulest smells I have smelt for a longtime. Some of the houses are painted a blinding white; others areunpainted; there is not a bush, or garden, or green thing; it juststraggles out promiscuously on the boundless brown plains, on theextreme verge of which three toothy peaks are seen. It is utterlyslovenly-looking, and unornamental, abounds in slouchingbar-room-looking characters, and looks a place of low, mean lives.Below the hotel window freight cars are being perpetually shunted, butbeyond the railroad tracks are nothing but the brown plains, with theirlonely sights—now a solitary horseman at a traveling amble, then aparty of Indians in paint and feathers, but civilized up to the pointof carrying firearms, mounted on sorry ponies, the bundled-up squawsriding astride on the baggage ponies; then a drove of ridgy-spined,long-horned cattle, which have been several months eating their wayfrom Texas, with their escort of four or five much-spurred horsemen, inpeaked hats, blue-hooded coats, and high boots, heavily armed withrevolvers and repeating rifles, and riding small wiry horses. Asolitary wagon, with a white tilt, drawn by eight oxen, is probablybearing an emigrant and his fortunes to Colorado. On one of the drearyspaces of the settlement six white-tilted wagons, each with twelveoxen, are standing on their way to a distant part. Everything suggestsa beyond.

[7] The discovery of gold in the Black Hills has lately given it agreat impetus, and as it is the chief point of departure for thediggings it is increasing in population and importance. (July, 1879)

September 9.

I have found at the post office here a circular letter ofrecommendation from ex-Governor Hunt, procured by Miss Kingsley'skindness, and another equally valuable one of "authentication" andrecommendation from Mr. Bowles, of the Springfield Republican, whosename is a household word in all the West. Armed with these, I shallplunge boldly into Colorado. I am suffering from giddiness and nauseaproduced by the bad smells. A "help" here says that there have beenfifty-six deaths from cholera during the last twenty days. Is commonhumanity lacking, I wonder, in this region of hard greed? Can it notbe bought by dollars here, like every other commodity, votes included?Last night I made the acquaintance of a shadowy gentleman fromWisconsin, far gone in consumption, with a spirited wife and youngbaby. He had been ordered to the Plains as a last resource, but wasmuch worse. Early this morning he crawled to my door, scarcely able tospeak from debility and bleeding from the lungs, begging me to go tohis wife, who, the doctor said was ill of cholera. The child had beenill all night, and not for love or money could he get any one to doanything for them, not even to go for the medicine. The lady was blue,and in great pain from cramp, and the poor unweaned infant was roaringfor the nourishment which had failed. I vainly tried to get hot waterand mustard for a poultice, and though I offered a Negro a dollar to gofor the medicine, he looked at it superciliously, hummed a tune, andsaid he must wait for the Pacific train, which was not due for an hour.Equally in vain I hunted through Cheyenne for a feeding bottle. Not amaternal heart softened to the helpless mother and starving child, andmy last resource was to dip a piece of sponge in some milk and water,and try to pacify the creature. I applied Rigollot's leaves, went forthe medicine, saw the popular host—a bachelor—who mentioned a girlwho, after much difficulty, consented to take charge of the baby fortwo dollars a day and attend to the mother, and having remained tillshe began to amend, I took the cars for Greeley, a settlement on thePlains, which I had been recommended to make my starting point for themountains.

FORT COLLINS, September 10.

It gave me a strange sensation to embark upon the Plains. Plains,plains everywhere, plains generally level, but elsewhere rolling inlong undulations, like the waves of a sea which had fallen asleep.They are covered thinly with buff grass, the withered stalks offlowers, Spanish bayonet, and a small beehive-shaped cactus. One couldgallop all over them.

They are peopled with large villages of what are called prairie dogs,because they utter a short, sharp bark, but the dogs are, in reality,marmots. We passed numbers of villages, which are composed of raisedcircular orifices, about eighteen inches in diameter, with slopingpassages leading downwards for five or six feet. Hundreds of theseburrows are placed together. On nearly every rim a small furryreddish-buff beast sat on his hind legs, looking, so far as head went,much like a young seal. These creatures were acting as sentinels, andsunning themselves. As we passed, each gave a warning yelp, shook itstail, and, with a ludicrous flourish of its hind legs, dived into itshole. The appearance of hundreds of these creatures, each eighteeninches long, sitting like dogs begging, with their paws down and allturned sunwards, is most grotesque. The Wish-ton-Wish has few enemies,and is a most prolific animal. From its enormous increase and theenergy and extent of its burrowing operations, one can fancy that inthe course of years the prairies will be seriously injured, as ithoneycombs the ground, and renders it unsafe for horses. The burrowsseem usually to be shared by owls, and many of the people insist that arattlesnake is also an inmate, but I hope for the sake of the harmless,cheery little prairie dog, that this unwelcome fellowship is a myth.

After running on a down grade for some time, five distinct ranges ofmountains, one above another, a lurid blue against a lurid sky,upheaved themselves above the prairie sea. An American railway car,hot, stuffy and full of chewing, spitting Yankees, was not an ideal wayof approaching this range which had early impressed itself upon myimagination. Still, it was truly grand, although it was sixty milesoff, and we were looking at it from a platform 5,000 feet in height.As I write I am only twenty-five miles from them, and they aregradually gaining possession of me.

I can look at and FEEL nothing else. At five in the afternoon framehouses and green fields began to appear, the cars drew up, and two ofmy fellow passengers and I got out and carried our own luggage throughthe deep dust to a small, rough, Western tavern, where with difficultywe were put up for the night. This settlement is called the GreeleyTemperance Colony, and was founded lately by an industrious class ofemigrants from the East, all total abstainers, and holding advancedpolitical opinions. They bought and fenced 50,000 acres of land,constructed an irrigating canal, which distributes its waters onreasonable terms, have already a population of 3,000, and are the mostprosperous and rising colony in Colorado, being altogether free fromeither laziness or crime. Their rich fields are artificiallyproductive solely; and after seeing regions where Nature givesspontaneously, one is amazed that people should settle here to bedependent on irrigating canals, with the risk of having their cropsdestroyed by grasshoppers. A clause in the charter of the colonyprohibits the introduction, sale, or consumption of intoxicatingliquor, and I hear that the men of Greeley carry their crusade againstdrink even beyond their limits, and have lately sacked three housesopen for the sale of drink near their frontier, pouring the whisky uponthe ground, so that people don't now like to run the risk of bringingliquor near Greeley, and the temperance influence is spreading over avery large area. As the men have no bar-rooms to sit in, I observedthat Greeley was asleep at an hour when other places were beginningtheir revelries. Nature is niggardly, and living is coarse and rough,the merest necessaries of hardy life being all that can be thought ofin this stage of existence.

My first experiences of Colorado travel have been rather severe. AtGreeley I got a small upstairs room at first, but gave it up to amarried couple with a child, and then had one downstairs no bigger thana cabin, with only a canvas partition. It was very hot, and everyplace was thick with black flies. The English landlady had just losther "help," and was in a great fuss, so that I helped her to get supperready. Its chief features were greasiness and black flies. Twenty menin working clothes fed and went out again, "nobody speaking to nobody."The landlady introduced me to a Vermont settler who lives in the "FootHills," who was very kind and took a great deal of trouble to get me ahorse. Horses abound, but they are either large American horses, whichare only used for draught, or small, active horses, called broncos,said to be from a Spanish word, signifying that they can never bebroke. They nearly all "buck," and are described as being more "ugly"and treacherous than mules. There is only one horse in Greeley "safefor a woman to ride." I tried an Indian pony by moonlight—such amoonlight—but found he had tender feet. The kitchen was the onlysitting room, so I shortly went to bed, to be awoke very soon bycrawling creatures apparently in myriads. I struck a light, and foundsuch swarms of bugs that I gathered myself up on the wooden chairs, anddozed uneasily till sunrise. Bugs are a great pest in Colorado. Theycome out of the earth, infest the wooden walls, and cannot be got ridof by any amount of cleanliness. Many careful housewives take theirbeds to pieces every week and put carbolic acid on them.

It was a glorious, cool morning, and the great range of the RockyMountains looked magnificent. I tried the pony again, but found hewould not do for a long journey; and as my Vermont acquaintance offeredme a seat in his wagon to Fort Collins, twenty-five miles nearer theMountains, I threw a few things together and came here with him. Weleft Greeley at 10, and arrived here at 4:30, staying an hour for foodon the way. I liked the first half of the drive; but the fierce,ungoverned, blazing heat of the sun on the whitish earth for the lasthalf, was terrible even with my white umbrella, which I have not usedsince I left New Zealand; it was sickening. Then the eyes have neveranything green to rest upon, except in the river bottoms, where thereis green hay grass. We followed mostly the course of the RiverCache-a-la-Poudre, which rises in the Mountains, and after supplyingGreeley with irrigation, falls into the Platte, which is an affluent ofthe Missouri. When once beyond the scattered houses and great ringfence of the vigorous Greeley colonists, we were on the boundlessprairie. Now and then horsemen passed us, and we met three wagons withwhite tilts. Except where the prairie dogs have honeycombed theground, you can drive almost anywhere, and the passage of a few wagonsover the same track makes a road. We forded the river, whose course ismarked the whole way by a fringe of small cotton-woods and aspens, andtraveled hour after hour with nothing to see except some dog towns,with their quaint little sentinels; but the view in front was glorious.The Alps, from the Lombard Plains, are the finest mountain panorama Iever saw, but not equal to this; for not only do five high-peakedgiants, each nearly the height of Mont Blanc, lift their dazzlingsummits above the lower ranges, but the expanse of mountains is sovast, and the whole lie in a transparent medium of the richest blue,not haze—something peculiar to the region. The lack of foreground isa great artistic fault, and the absence of greenery is melancholy, andmakes me recall sadly the entrancing detail of the Hawaiian Islands.Once only, the second time we forded the river, the cotton-woods formeda foreground, and then the loveliness was heavenly. We stopped at alog house and got a rough dinner of beef and potatoes, and I was amusedat the five men who shared it with us for apologizing to me for beingwithout their coats, as if coats would not be an enormity on the Plains.

It is the election day for the Territory, and men were galloping overthe prairie to register their votes. The three in the wagon talkedpolitics the whole time. They spoke openly and shamelessly of theprices given for votes; and apparently there was not a politician oneither side who was not accused of degrading corruption. We saw aconvoy of 5,000 head of Texas cattle traveling from southern Texas toIowa. They had been nine months on the way! They were under thecharge of twenty mounted vacheros, heavily armed, and a light wagonaccompanied them, full of extra rifles and ammunition, not unnecessary,for the Indians are raiding in all directions, maddened by the recklessand useless slaughter of the buffalo, which is their chief subsistence.On the Plains are herds of wild horses, buffalo, deer, and antelope;and in the Mountains, bears, wolves, deer, elk, mountain lions, bison,and mountain sheep. You see a rifle in every wagon, as people alwayshope to fall in with game.

By the time we reached Fort Collins I was sick and dizzy with the heatof the sun, and not disposed to be pleased with a most unpleasingplace. It was a military post, but at present consists of a few framehouses put down recently on the bare and burning plain. The settlershave "great expectations," but of what? The Mountains look hardlynearer than from Greeley; one only realizes their vicinity by the lossof their higher peaks. This house is freer from bugs than the one atGreeley, but full of flies. These new settlements are altogetherrevolting, entirely utilitarian, given up to talk of dollars as well asto making them, with coarse speech, coarse food, coarse everything,nothing wherewith to satisfy the higher cravings if they exist, nothingon which the eye can rest with pleasure. The lower floor of this innswarms with locusts in addition to thousands of black flies. Thelatter cover the ground and rise buzzing from it as you walk.

I. L. B.

Letter IV

A plague of flies—A melancholy charioteer—The Foot Hills—A mountainboarding-house—A dull life—"Being agreeable"—Climate ofColorado—Soroche and snakes.

CANYON, September 12.

I was actually so dull and tired that I deliberately slept away theafternoon in order to forget the heat and flies. Thirty men in workingclothes, silent and sad looking, came in to supper. The beef was toughand greasy, the butter had turned to oil, and beef and butter wereblack with living, drowned, and half-drowned flies. The greasytable-cloth was black also with flies, and I did not wonder that theguests looked melancholy and quickly escaped. I failed to get a horse,but was strongly recommended to come here and board with a settler,who, they said, had a saw-mill and took boarders. The person whorecommended it so strongly gave me a note of introduction, and told methat it was in a grand part of the mountains, where many people hadbeen camping out all the summer for the benefit of their health. Theidea of a boarding-house, as I know them in America, was ratherformidable in the present state of my wardrobe, and I decided onbringing my carpet-bag, as well as my pack, lest I should be rejectedfor my bad clothes.

Early the next morning I left in a buggy drawn by light broncos anddriven by a profoundly melancholy young man. He had never been to thecanyon; there was no road. We met nobody, saw nothing except antelopein the distance, and he became more melancholy and lost his way,driving hither and thither for about twenty miles till we came upon anold trail which eventually brought us to a fertile "bottom," where hayand barley were being harvested, and five or six frame houses lookedcheerful. I had been recommended to two of these, which professed totake in strangers, but one was full of reapers, and in the other achild was dead. So I took the buggy on, glad to leave the glaring,prosaic settlement behind. There was a most curious loneliness aboutthe journey up to that time. Except for the huge barrier to the right,the boundless prairies were everywhere, and it was like being at seawithout a compass. The wheels made neither sound nor indentation as wedrove over the short, dry grass, and there was no cheerful clatter ofhorses' hoofs. The sky was cloudy and the air hot and still. In oneplace we passed the carcass of a mule, and a number of vultures soaredup from it, to descend again immediately. Skeletons and bones ofanimals were often to be seen. A range of low, grassy hills, calledthe Foot Hills, rose from the plain, featureless and monotonous, exceptwhere streams, fed by the snows of the higher regions, had cut theirway through them. Confessedly bewildered, and more melancholy thanever, the driver turned up one of the wildest of these entrances, andin another hour the Foot Hills lay between us and the prairie sea, anda higher and broken range, with pitch pines of average size, wasrevealed behind them. These Foot Hills, which swell up uninterestinglyfrom the plains on their eastern side, on their western have theappearance of having broken off from the next range, and the break isabrupt, and takes the form of walls and terraces of rock of the mostbrilliant color, weathered and stained by ores, and, even under thegrey sky, dazzling to the eyes. The driver thought he had understoodthe directions given, but he was stupid, and once we lost some miles byarriving at a river too rough and deep to be forded, and again we werebrought up by an impassable canyon. He grew frightened about hishorses, and said no money would ever tempt him into the mountainsagain; but average intelligence would have made it all easy.

The solitude was becoming somber, when, after driving for nine hours,and traveling at the least forty-five miles, without any sign offatigue on the part of the broncos, we came to a stream, by the side ofwhich we drove along a definite track, till we came to a sort oftripartite valley, with a majestic crooked canyon 2,000 feet deepopening upon it. A rushing stream roared through it, and the RockyMountains, with pines scattered over them, came down upon it. A littlefarther, and the canyon became utterly inaccessible. This wasexciting; here was an inner world. A rough and shaky bridge, made ofthe outsides of pines laid upon some unsecured logs, crossed the river.The broncos stopped and smelt it, not liking it, but some encouragingspeech induced them to go over. On the other side was a log cabin,partially ruinous, and the very rudest I ever saw, its roof ofplastered mud being broken into large holes. It stood close to thewater among some cotton-wood trees. A little higher there was a veryprimitive saw-mill, also out of repair, with some logs lying about. Anemigrant wagon and a forlorn tent, with a camp-fire and a pot, were inthe foreground, but there was no trace of the boarding-house, of whichI stood a little in dread. The driver went for further directions tothe log cabin, and returned with a grim smile deepening the melancholyof his face to say it was Mr. Chalmers', but there was no accommodationfor such as him, much less for me! This was truly "a sell." I gotdown and found a single room of the rudest kind, with the wall at oneend partially broken down, holes in the roof, holes for windows, and nofurniture but two chairs and two unplaned wooden shelves, with somesacks of straw upon them for beds. There was an adjacent cabin room,with a stove, benches, and table, where they cooked and ate, but thiswas all. A hard, sad-looking woman looked at me measuringly. She saidthat they sold milk and butter to parties who camped in the canyon,that they had never had any boarders but two asthmatic old ladies, butthey would take me for five dollars per week if I "would make myselfagreeable." The horses had to be fed, and I sat down on a box, hadsome dried beef and milk, and considered the matter. If I went back toFort Collins, I thought I was farther from a mountain life, and had nochoice but Denver, a place from which I shrank, or to take the cars forNew York. Here the life was rough, rougher than any I had ever seen,and the people repelled me by their faces and manners; but if I couldrough it for a few days, I might, I thought, get over canyons and allother difficulties into Estes Park, which has become the goal of myjourney and hopes. So I decided to remain.

September 16.

Five days here, and I am no nearer Estes Park. How the days pass Iknow not; I am weary of the limitations of this existence. This is "alife in which nothing happens." When the buggy disappeared, I felt asif I had cut the bridge behind me. I sat down and knitted for sometime—my usual resource under discouraging circumstances. I really didnot know how I should get on. There was no table, no bed, no basin, notowel, no glass, no window, no fastening on the door. The roof was inholes, the logs were unchinked, and one end of the cabin was partiallyremoved! Life was reduced to its simplest elements. I went out; thefamily all had something to do, and took no notice of me. I went back,and then an awkward girl of sixteen, with uncombed hair, and a painfulrepulsiveness of face and air, sat on a log for half an hour and staredat me. I tried to draw her into talk, but she twirled her fingers andreplied snappishly in monosyllables. Could I by any effort "makemyself agreeable"? I wondered. The day went on. I put on my Hawaiiandress, rolling up the sleeves to the elbows in an "agreeable" fashion.Towards evening the family returned to feed, and pushed some dried beefand milk in at the door. They all slept under the trees, and beforedark carried the sacks of straw out for their bedding. I followedtheir example that night, or rather watched Charles's Wain while theyslept, but since then have slept on blankets on the floor under theroof. They have neither lamp nor candle, so if I want to do anythingafter dark I have to do it by the unsteady light of pine knots. As thenights are cold, and free from bugs, and I do a good deal of manuallabor, I sleep well. At dusk I make my bed on the floor, and draw abucket of ice-cold water from the river; the family go to sleep underthe trees, and I pile logs on the fire sufficient to burn half thenight, for I assure you the solitude is eerie enough. There areunaccountable noises, (wolves), rummagings under the floor, queercries, and stealthy sounds of I know not what. One night a beast (foxor skunk) rushed in at the open end of the cabin, and fled through thewindow, almost brushing my face, and on another, the head and three orfour inches of the body of a snake were protruded through a chink ofthe floor close to me, to my extreme disgust. My mirror is thepolished inside of my watchcase. At sunrise Mrs. Chalmers comes in—ifcoming into a nearly open shed can be called IN—and makes a fire,because she thinks me too stupid to do it, and mine is the family room;and by seven I am dressed, have folded the blankets, and swept thefloor, and then she puts some milk and bread or stirabout on a box bythe door. After breakfast I draw more water, and wash one or twogarments daily, taking care that there are no witnesses of myinexperience. Yesterday a calf sucked one into hopeless rags. Therest of the day I spend in mending, knitting, writing to you, and thevarious odds and ends which arise when one has to do all for oneself.At twelve and six some food is put on the box by the door, and at duskwe make up our beds. A distressed emigrant woman has just given birthto a child in a temporary shanty by the river, and I go to help hereach day.

I have made the acquaintance of all the careworn, struggling settlerswithin a walk. All have come for health, and most have found or arefinding it, even if they have not better shelter than a wagon tilt or ablanket on sticks laid across four poles. The climate of Colorado isconsidered the finest in North America, and consumptives, asthmatics,dyspeptics, and sufferers from nervous diseases, are here in hundredsand thousands, either trying the "camp cure" for three or four months,or settling here permanently. People can safely sleep out of doors forsix months of the year. The plains are from 4,000 to 6,000 feet high,and some of the settled "parks," or mountain valleys, are from 8,000to 10,000. The air, besides being much rarefied, is very dry. Therainfall is far below the average, dews are rare, and fogs nearlyunknown. The sunshine is bright and almost constant, and three-fourthsof the days are cloudless. The milk, beef, and bread are good. Theclimate is neither so hot in summer nor so cold in winter as that ofthe States, and when the days are hot the nights are cool. Snow rarelylies on the lower ranges, and horses and cattle don't require to beeither fed or housed during the winter. Of course the rarefied airquickens respiration. All this is from hearsay.[8] I am not underfavorable circumstances, either for mind or body, and at present I feela singular lassitude and difficulty in taking exercise, but this issaid to be the milder form of the affliction known on higher altitudesas soroche, or "mountain sickness," and is only temporary. I amforming a plan for getting farther into the mountains, and hope that mynext letter will be more lively. I killed a rattlesnake this morningclose to the cabin, and have taken its rattle, which has eleven joints.My life is embittered by the abundance of these reptiles—rattlesnakesand moccasin snakes, both deadly, carpet snakes and "green racers,"reputed dangerous, water snakes, tree snakes, and mouse snakes,harmless but abominable. Seven rattlesnakes have been killed justoutside the cabin since I came. A snake, three feet long, was coiledunder the pillow of the sick woman. I see snakes in all witheredtwigs, and am ready to flee at "the sound of a shaken leaf." Andbesides snakes, the earth and air are alive and noisy with forms ofinsect life, large and small, stinging, humming, buzzing, striking,rasping, devouring!

[8] The curative effect of the climate of Colorado can hardly beexaggerated. In traveling extensively through the Territory afterwardsI found that nine out of every ten settlers were cured invalids.Statistics and medical workers on the climate of the State (as it nowis) represent Colorado as the most remarkable sanatorium in the world.

I. L. B.

Letter V

A dateless day—"Those hands of yours"—A Puritan—Perseveringshiftlessness—The house-mother—Family worship—A grim Sunday—A"thick-skulled Englishman"—A morning call—Another atmosphere—TheGreat Lone Land—"Ill found"—A log camp—Bad footing forhorses—Accidents—Disappointment.

CANYON, September.

The absence of a date shows my predicament. THEY have no newspaper;Ihave no almanack; the father is away for the day, and none of theothers can help me, and they look contemptuously upon my desire forinformation on the subject. The monotony will come to an endto-morrow, for Chalmers offers to be my guide over the mountains toEstes Park, and has persuaded his wife "for once to go for a frolic";and with much reluctance, many growls at the waste of time, and manyapprehensions of danger and loss, she has consented to accompany him.My life has grown less dull from their having become more interestingto me, and as I have "made myself agreeable," we are on fairly friendlyterms. My first move in the direction of fraternizing was, however,snubbed. A few days ago, having finished my own work, I offered towash up the plates, but Mrs. C., with a look which conveyed more thanwords, a curl of her nose, and a sneer in her twang, said "Guess you'llmake more work nor you'll do. Those hands of yours" (very brown andcoarse they were) "ain't no good; never done nothing, I guess." Thento her awkward daughter: "This woman says she'll wash up! Ha! ha! lookat her arms and hands!" This was the nearest approach to a laugh Ihave heard, and have never seen even a tendency towards a smile. Sincethen I have risen in their estimation by improvizing a lamp—Hawaiianfashion—by putting a wisp of rag into a tin of fat. They haveactually condescended to sit up till the stars come out since. Anotheradvance was made by means of the shell-pattern quilt I am knitting foryou. There has been a tendency towards approving of it, and a few dayssince the girl snatched it out of my hand, saying, "I want this," andapparently took it to the camp. This has resulted in my having aknitting class, with the woman, her married daughter, and a woman fromthe camp, as pupils. Then I have gained ground with the man by beingable to catch and saddle a horse. I am often reminded of my favoritecouplet,—

Beware of desperate steps; the darkest day,
Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.

But oh! what a hard, narrow life it is with which I am now in contact!A narrow and unattractive religion, which I believe still to begenuine, and an intense but narrow patriotism, are the only higherinfluences. Chalmers came from Illinois nine years ago, pronounced bythe doctors to be far gone in consumption, and in two years he wasstrong. They are a queer family; somewhere in the remote Highlands Ihave seen such another. Its head is tall, gaunt, lean, and ragged, andhas lost one eye. On an English road one would think him a starving ora dangerous beggar. He is slightly intelligent, very opinionated, andwishes to be thought well informed, which he is not. He belongs to thestraitest sect of Reformed Presbyterians ("Psalm-singers"), butexaggerates anything of bigotry and intolerance which may characterizethem, and rejoices in truly merciless fashion over the excision of thephilanthropic Mr. Stuart, of Philadelphia, for worshipping withcongregations which sing hymns. His great boast is that his ancestorswere Scottish Covenanters. He considers himself a profound theologian,and by the pine logs at night discourses to me on the mysteries of theeternal counsels and the divine decrees. Colorado, with its progressand its future, is also a constant theme. He hates England with abitter, personal hatred, and regards any allusions which I make to theprogress of Victoria as a personal insult. He trusts to live to seethe downfall of the British monarchy and the disintegration of theempire. He is very fond of talking, and asks me a great deal about mytravels, but if I speak favorably of the climate or resources of anyother country, he regards it as a slur on Colorado.

They have one hundred and sixty acres of land, a "Squatter's claim,"and an invaluable water power. He is a lumberer, and has a saw-mill ofa very primitive kind. I notice that every day something goes wrongwith it, and this is the case throughout. If he wants to haul timberdown, one or other of the oxen cannot be found; or if the timber isactually under way, a wheel or a part of the harness gives way, and thewhole affair is at a standstill for days. The cabin is hardly ashelter, but is allowed to remain in ruins because the foundation of aframe house was once dug. A horse is always sure to be lame for wantof a shoe nail, or a saddle to be useless from a broken buckle, and thewagon and harness are a marvel of temporary shifts, patchings, andinsecure linkings with strands of rope. Nothing is ever ready or wholewhen it is wanted. Yet Chalmers is a frugal, sober, hard-working man,and he, his eldest son, and a "hired man" "Rise early," "going forth totheir work and labor till the evening"; and if they do not "late takerest," they truly "eat the bread of carefulness." It is hardlysurprising that nine years of persevering shiftlessness should haveresulted in nothing but the ability to procure the bare necessaries oflife.

Of Mrs. C. I can say less. She looks like one of the English poorwomen of our childhood—lean, clean, toothless, and speaks, like someof them, in a piping, discontented voice, which seems to convey apersonal reproach. All her waking hours are spent in a largesun-bonnet. She is never idle for one minute, is severe and hard, anddespises everything but work. I think she suffers from her husband'sshiftlessness. She always speaks of me as "This" or "that woman." Thefamily consists of a grown-up son, a shiftless, melancholy-lookingyouth, who possibly pines for a wider life; a girl of sixteen, a sour,repellent-looking creature, with as much manners as a pig; and threehard, un-child-like younger children. By the whole family all courtesyand gentleness of act or speech seem regarded as "works of the flesh,"if not of "the devil." They knock over all one's things withoutapologizing or picking them up, and when I thank them for anything theylook grimly amazed. I feel that they think it sinful that I do notwork as hard as they do. I wish I could show them "a more excellentway." This hard greed, and the exclusive pursuit of gain, with theindifference to all which does not aid in its acquisition, are eatingup family love and life throughout the West. I write this reluctantly,and after a total experience of nearly two years in the United States.They seem to have no "Sunday clothes," and few of any kind. The sewingmachine, like most other things, is out of order. One comb serves thewhole family. Mrs. C. is cleanly in her person and dress, and thefood, though poor, is clean. Work, work, work, is their day and theirlife. They are thoroughly ungenial, and have that air of suspicion inspeaking of every one which is not unusual in the land of theirancestors. Thomas Chalmers is the man's ecclesiastical hero, in spiteof his own severe Puritanism. Their live stock consists of twowretched horses, a fairly good bronco mare, a mule, four badly-bredcows, four gaunt and famished-looking oxen, some swine of singularlyactive habits, and plenty of poultry. The old saddles are tied on withtwine; one side of the bridle is a worn-out strap and the other a rope.They wear boots, but never two of one pair, and never blacked, ofcourse, but no stockings. They think it quite effeminate to sleepunder a roof, except during the severest months of the year. There isa married daughter across the river, just the same hard, loveless,moral, hard-working being as her mother. Each morning, soon afterseven, when I have swept the cabin, the family come in for "worship."Chalmers "wales" a psalm, in every sense of the word wail, to the mostdoleful of dismal tunes; they read a chapter round, and he prays. Ifhis prayer has something of the tone of the imprecatory psalms, he hashigh authority in his favor; and if there be a tinge of the Pharisaicthanksgiving, it is hardly surprising that he is grateful that he isnot as other men are when he contemplates the general godlessness ofthe region.

Sunday was a dreadful day. The family kept the Commandment literally,and did no work. Worship was conducted twice, and was rather longerthan usual. Chalmers does not allow of any books in his house buttheological works, and two or three volumes of dull travels, so themother and children slept nearly all day. The man attempted to read awell-worn copy of Boston's Fourfold State, but shortly fell asleep, andthey only woke up for their meals. Friday and Saturday had beenpassably cool, with frosty nights, but on Saturday night it changed,and I have not felt anything like the heat of Sunday since I left NewZealand, though the mercury was not higher than 91 degrees. It wassickening, scorching, melting, unbearable, from the mere power of thesun's rays. It was an awful day, and seemed as if it would never cometo an end. The cabin, with its mud roof under the shade of the trees,gave a little shelter, but it was occupied by the family, and I longedfor solitude. I took the Imitation of Christ, and strolled up thecanyon among the withered, crackling leaves, in much dread of snakes,and lay down on a rough table which some passing emigrant had left, andsoon fell asleep. When I awoke it was only noon. The sun lookedwicked as it blazed like a white magnesium light. A large tree-snake(quite harmless) hung from the pine under which I had taken shelter,and looked as if it were going to drop upon me. I was covered withblack flies. The air was full of a busy, noisy din of insects, andsnakes, locusts, wasps, flies, and grasshoppers were all rioting in thetorrid heat. Would the sublime philosophy of Thomas a Kempis, Iwondered, have given way under this? All day I seemed to hear inmockery the clear laugh of the Hilo streams, and the drip of Konashowers, and to see as in a mirage the perpetual Green of windwardHawaii. I was driven back to the cabin in the late afternoon, and inthe evening listened for two hours to abuse of my own country, and tosweeping condemnations of all religionists outside of the brotherhoodof "Psalm-singers." It is jarring and painful, yet I would say ofChalmers, as Dr. Holland says of another:—

If ever I shall reach the home in heaven,
For whose dear rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven
I shall be sure to meet old Daniel Gray.

The night came without coolness, but at daylight on Monday morning afire was pleasant. You will now have some idea of my surroundings. Itis a moral, hard, unloving, unlovely, unrelieved, unbeautified,grinding life. These people live in a discomfort and lack of ease andrefinement which seems only possible to people of British stock. A"foreigner" fills his cabin with ingenuities and elegancies, and aHawaiian or South Sea Islander makes his grass house both pretty andtasteful. Add to my surroundings a mighty canyon, impassable bothabove and below, and walls of mountains with an opening some miles offto the vast prairie sea.[9]

[9] I have not curtailed this description of the roughness of aColorado settler's life, for, with the exceptions of the disrepair andthe Puritanism, it is a type of the hard, unornamented existence withwhich I came almost universally in contact during my subsequentresidence in the Territory.

An English physician is settled about half a mile from here over ahill. He is spoken of as holding "very extreme opinions." Chalmersrails at him for being "a thick-skulled Englishman," for being "fine,polished," etc. To say a man is "polished" here is to give him a verybad name. He accuses him also of holding views subversive of allmorality. In spite of all this, I thought he might possess a map, andI induced Mrs. C. to walk over with me. She intended it as a formalmorning call, but she wore the inevitable sun-bonnet, and had her dresstied up as when washing. It was not till I reached the gate that Iremembered that I was in my Hawaiian riding dress, and that I stillwore the spurs with which I had been trying a horse in the morning!The house was in a grass valley which opened from the tremendous canyonthrough which the river had cut its way. The Foot Hills, with theirterraces of flaming red rock, were glowing in the sunset, and a puregreen sky arched tenderly over a soft evening scene. Used to themeanness and baldness of settlers' dwellings. I was delighted to seethat in this instance the usual log cabin was only the lower floor of asmall house, which bore a delightful resemblance to a Swiss chalet. Itstood in a vegetable garden fertilized by an irrigating ditch, outsideof which were a barn and cowshed. A young Swiss girl was bringing thecows slowly home from the hill, an Englishwoman in a clean print dressstood by the fence holding a baby, and a fine-looking Englishman in astriped Garibaldi shirt, and trousers of the same tucked into highboots, was shelling corn. As soon as Mrs. Hughes spoke I felt she wastruly a lady; and oh! how refreshing her refined, courteous, gracefulEnglish manner was, as she invited us into the house! The entrance waslow, through a log porch festooned and almost concealed by a "wildcucumber." Inside, though plain and poor, the room looked a home, notlike a squatter's cabin. An old tin was completely covered by agraceful clematis mixed with streamers of Virginia creeper, and whitemuslin curtains, and above all two shelves of admirably-chosen books,gave the room almost an air of elegance. Why do I write almost? Itwas an oasis. It was barely three weeks since I had left "thecommunion of educated men," and the first tones of the voices of myhost and hostess made me feel as if I had been out of it for a year.Mrs. C. stayed an hour and a half, and then went home to the cows, whenwe launched upon a sea of congenial talk. They said they had not seenan educated lady for two years, and pressed me to go and visit them. Irode home on Dr. Hughes's horse after dark, to find neither fire norlight in the cabin. Mrs. C. had gone back saying, "Those Englishtalked just like savages, I couldn't understand a word they said."

I made a fire, and extemporized a light with some fat and a wick ofrag, and Chalmers came in to discuss my visit and to ask me a questionconcerning a matter which had roused the latent curiosity of the wholefamily. I had told him, he said, that I knew no one hereabouts, but"his woman" told him that Dr. H. and I spoke constantly of a Mrs.Grundy, whom we both knew and disliked, and who was settled, as wesaid, not far off! He had never heard of her, he said, and he was thepioneer settler of the canyon, and there was a man up here fromLongmount who said he was sure there was not a Mrs. Grundy in thedistrict, unless it was a woman who went by two names! The wife andfamily had then come in, and I felt completely nonplussed. I longed totell Chalmers that it was he and such as he, there or anywhere, withnarrow hearts, bitter tongues, and harsh judgments, who were the true"Mrs. Grundys," dwarfing individuality, checking lawful freedom ofspeech, and making men "offenders for a word," but I forebore. How Iextricated myself from the difficulty, deponent sayeth not. The restof the evening has been spent in preparing to cross the mountains.Chalmers says he knows the way well, and that we shall sleep to-morrowat the foot of Long's Peak. Mrs. Chalmers repents of having consented,and conjures up doleful visions of what the family will come to whenleft headless, and of disasters among the cows and hens. I could tellher that the eldest son and the "hired man" have plotted to close thesaw-mill and go on a hunting and fishing expedition, that the cows willstray, and that the individual spoken respectfully of as "Mr. Skunk"will make havoc in the hen-house.

NAMELESS REGION, ROCKY MOUNTAINS, September.

This is indeed far removed. It seems farther away from you than anyplace I have been to yet, except the frozen top of the volcano of MaunaLoa. It is so little profaned by man that if one were compelled tolive here in solitude one might truly say of the bears, deer, and elkwhich abound, "Their tameness is shocking to me." It is the world of"big game." Just now a heavy-headed elk, with much-branched hornsfully three feet long, stood and looked at me, and then quietly trottedaway. He was so near that I heard the grass, crisp with hoar frost,crackle under his feet. Bears stripped the cherry bushes within a fewyards of us last night. Now two lovely blue birds, with crests ontheir heads, are picking about within a stone's-throw. This is "TheGreat Lone Land," until lately the hunting ground of the Indians, andnot yet settled or traversed, or likely to be so, owing to the want ofwater. A solitary hunter has built a log cabin up here, which heoccupies for a few weeks for the purpose of elk-hunting, but all theregion is unsurveyed, and mostly unexplored. It is 7 A.M. The sun hasnot yet risen high enough to melt the hoar frost, and the air is clear,bright, and cold. The stillness is profound. I hear nothing but thefar-off mysterious roaring of a river in a deep canyon, which we spenttwo hours last night in trying to find. The horses are lost, and if Iwere disposed to retort upon my companions the term they invariablyapply to me, I should now write, with bitter emphasis, "THAT man" and"THAT woman" have gone in search of them.

The scenery up here is glorious, combining sublimity with beauty, andin the elastic air fatigue has dropped off from me. This is no regionfor tourists and women, only for a few elk and bear hunters at times,and its unprofaned freshness gives me new life. I cannot by any wordsgive you an idea of scenery so different from any that you or I haveever seen. This is an upland valley of grass and flowers, of gladesand sloping lawns, and cherry-fringed beds of dry streams, and clumpsof pines artistically placed, and mountain sides densely pine clad, thepines breaking into fringes as they come down upon the "park," and themountains breaking into pinnacles of bold grey rock as they pierce theblue of the sky. A single dell of bright green grass, on which dwarfclumps of the scarlet poison oak look like beds of geraniums, slopestowards the west, as if it must lead to the river which we seek. Deep,vast canyons, all trending westwards, lie in purple gloom. Pine-cladranges, rising into the blasted top of Storm Peak, all run westwardstoo, and all the beauty and glory are but the frame out of whichrises—heaven-piercing, pure in its pearly luster, as glorious amountain as the sun tinges red in either hemisphere—the splintered,pinnacled, lonely, ghastly, imposing, double-peaked summit of Long'sPeak, the Mont Blanc of Northern Colorado.[10]

[10] Gray's Peak and Pike's Peak have their partisans, but after seeingthem all under favorable aspects, Long's Peak stands in my memory as itdoes in that vast congeries of mountains, alone in imperial grandeur.

This is a view to which nothing needs to be added. This is truly the"lodge in some vast wilderness" for which one often sighs when in themidst of "a bustle at once sordid and trivial." In spite of Dr.Johnson, these "monstrous protuberances" do "inflame the imaginationand elevate the understanding." This scenery satisfies my soul. Now,the Rocky Mountains realize—nay, exceed—the dream of my childhood.It is magnificent, and the air is life giving. I should like to spendsome time in these higher regions, but I know that this will turn outan abortive expedition, owing to the stupidity and pigheadedness ofChalmers.

There is a most romantic place called Estes Park, at a height of 7,500feet, which can be reached by going down to the plains and thenstriking up the St. Vrain Canyon, but this is a distance of fifty-fivemiles, and as Chalmers was confident that he could take me over themountains, a distance, as he supposed, of about twenty miles, we leftat mid-day yesterday, with the fervent hope, on my part, that I mightnot return. Mrs. C. was busy the whole of Tuesday in preparing whatshe called "grub," which, together with "plenty of bedding," was to becarried on a pack mule; but when we started I was disgusted to findthat Chalmers was on what should have been the pack animal, and thattwo thickly-quilted cotton "spreads" had been disposed of under mysaddle, making it broad, high, and uncomfortable. Any human being musthave laughed to see an expedition start so grotesquely "ill found." Ihad a very old iron-grey horse, whose lower lip hung down feebly,showing his few teeth, while his fore-legs stuck out forwards, andmatter ran from both his nearly-blind eyes. It is kindness to bringhim up to abundant pasture. My saddle is an old McLellan cavalrysaddle, with a battered brass peak, and the bridle is a rotten leatherstrap on one side and a strand of rope on the other. The cotton quiltscovered the Rosinante from mane to tail. Mrs. C. wore an old printskirt, an old short-gown, a print apron, and a sun-bonnet, with a flapcoming down to her waist, and looked as careworn and clean as shealways does. The inside horn of her saddle was broken; to the outsideone hung a saucepan and a bundle of clothes. The one girth was nearlyat the breaking point when we started.

My pack, with my well-worn umbrella upon it, was behind my saddle. Iwore my Hawaiian riding dress, with a handkerchief tied over my faceand the sun-cover of my umbrella folded and tied over my hat, for thesun was very fierce. The queerest figure of all was the would-beguide. With his one eye, his gaunt, lean form, and his torn clothes,he looked more like a strolling tinker than the honest worthy settlerthat he is. He bestrode rather than rode a gaunt mule, whose tail hadall been shaven off, except a turf for a tassel at the end. Two flourbags which leaked were tied on behind the saddle, two quilts were underit, and my canvas bag, a battered canteen, a frying pan, and twolariats hung from the horn. On one foot C. wore an old high boot, intowhich his trouser was tucked, and on the other an old brogue, throughwhich his toes protruded.

We had an ascent of four hours through a ravine which gradually openedout upon this beautiful "park," but we rode through it for some milesbefore the view burst upon us. The vastness of this range, likeastronomical distances, can hardly be conceived of. At this place, Isuppose, it is not less than 250 miles wide, and with hardly a break inits continuity, it stretches almost from the Arctic Circle to theStraits of Magellan. From the top of Long's Peak, within a shortdistance, twenty-two summits, each above 12,000 feet in height, arevisible, and the Snowy Range, the backbone or "divide" of thecontinent, is seen snaking distinctly through the wilderness of ranges,with its waters starting for either ocean. From the first ridge wecrossed after leaving Canyon we had a singular view of range beyondrange cleft by deep canyons, and abounding in elliptical valleys,richly grassed. The slopes of all the hills, as far as one could see,were waving with fine grass ready for the scythe, but the food of wildanimals only. All these ridges are heavily timbered with pitch pines,and where they come down on the grassy slopes they look as if the treeshad been arranged by a landscape gardener. Far off, through an openingin a canyon, we saw the prairie simulating the ocean. Far off, throughan opening in another direction, was the glistening outline of theSnowy Range. But still, till we reached this place, it was monotonous,though grand as a whole: a grey-green or buff-grey, with outbreaks ofbrilliantly-colored rock, only varied by the black-green of pines,which are not the stately pyramidal pines of the Sierra Nevada, butmuch resemble the natural Scotch fir. Not many miles from us is NorthPark, a great tract of land said to be rich in gold, but those who havegone to "prospect" have seldom returned, the region being the home oftribes of Indians who live in perpetual hostility to the whites and toeach other.

At this great height, and most artistically situated, we came upon arude log camp tenanted in winter by an elk hunter, but now deserted.Chalmers without any scruple picked the padlock; we lighted a fire,made some tea, and fried some bacon, and after a good meal mountedagain and started for Estes Park. For four weary hours we searchedhither and thither along every indentation of the ground which might besupposed to slope towards the Big Thompson River, which we knew had tobe forded. Still, as the quest grew more tedious, Long's Peak stoodbefore us as a landmark in purple glory; and still at his feet lay ahollow filled with deep blue atmosphere, where I knew that Estes Parkmust lie, and still between us and it lay never-lessening miles ofinaccessibility, and the sun was ever weltering, and the shadows everlengthening, and Chalmers, who had started confident, bumptious,blatant, was ever becoming more bewildered, and his wife's thin voicemore piping and discontented, and my stumbling horse more insecure, andI more determined (as I am at this moment) that somehow or other Iwould reach that blue hollow, and even stand on Long's Peak where thesnow was glittering. Affairs were becoming serious, and Chalmers'sincompetence a source of real peril, when, after an exploringexpedition, he returned more bumptious than ever, saying he knew itwould be all right, he had found a trail, and we could get across theriver by dark, and camp out for the night. So he led us into a steep,deep, rough ravine, where we had to dismount, for trees were lyingacross it everywhere, and there was almost no footing on the greatslabs of shelving rock. Yet there was a trail, tolerably well worn,and the branches and twigs near the ground were well broken back. Ah!it was a wild place. My horse fell first, rolling over twice, andbreaking off a part of the saddle, in his second roll knocking me overa shelf of three feet of descent. Then Mrs. C.'s horse and the mulefell on the top of each other, and on recovering themselves bit eachother savagely. The ravine became a wild gulch, the dry bed of someawful torrent; there were huge shelves of rock, great overhanging wallsof rock, great prostrate trees, cedar spikes and cacti to wound thefeet, and then a precipice fully 500 feet deep! The trail was a trailmade by bears in search of bear cherries, which abounded!

It was getting dusk as we had to struggle up the rough gulch we had sofatuously descended. The horses fell several times; I could hardly getmine up at all, though I helped him as much as I could; I was cut andbruised, scratched and torn. A spine of a cactus penetrated my foot,and some vicious thing cut the back of my neck. Poor Mrs. C. was muchbruised, and I pitied her, for she got no fun out of it as I did. Itwas an awful climb. When we got out of the gulch, C. was so confusedthat he took the wrong direction, and after an hour of vague wanderingwas only recalled to the right one by my pertinacious assertions actingon his weak brain. I was inclined to be angry with the incompetentbraggart, who had boasted that he could take us to Estes Park"blindfold"; but I was sorry for him too, so said nothing, even thoughI had to walk during these meanderings to save my tired horse. When atlast, at dark, we reached the open, there was a snow flurry, withviolent gusts of wind, and the shelter of the camp, dark and cold as itwas, was desirable. We had no food, but made a fire. I lay down onsome dry grass, with my inverted saddle for a pillow, and sleptsoundly, till I was awoke by the cold of an intense frost and the painof my many cuts and bruises. Chalmers promised that we should make afresh start at six, so I woke him up at five, and here I am alone athalf-past eight! I said to him many times that unless he hobbled orpicketed the horses, we should lose them. "Oh," he said "they'll beall right." In truth he had no picketing pins. Now, the animals aremerrily trotting homewards. I saw them two miles off an hour ago withhim after them. His wife, who is also after them, goaded todesperation, said, "He's the most ignorant, careless, good-for-nothingman I ever saw," upon which I dwelt upon his being well meaning. Thereis a sort of well here, but our "afternoon tea" and watering the horsesdrained it, so we have had nothing to drink since yesterday, for thecanteen, which started without a cork, lost all its contents when themule fell. I have made a monstrous fire, but thirst and impatience arehard to bear, and preventible misfortunes are always irksome. I havefound the stomach of a bear with fully a pint of cherrystones in it,and have spent an hour in getting the kernels; and lo! now, athalf-past nine, I see the culprit and his wife coming back with theanimals.

I. L. B.

LOWER CANYON, September 21.

We never reached Estes Park. There is no trail, and horses have neverbeen across. We started from camp at ten, and spent four hours insearching for the trail. Chalmers tried gulch after gulch again, hisself-assertion giving way a little after each failure; sometimes goingeast when we should have gone west, always being brought up by aprecipice or other impossibility. At last he went off by himself, andreturned rejoicing, saying he had found the trail; and soon, sureenough, we were on a well-defined old trail, evidently made bycarcasses which have been dragged along it by hunters. Vainly Ipointed out to him that we were going north-east when we should havegone south-west, and that we were ascending instead of descending."Oh, it's all right, and we shall soon come to water," he alwaysreplied. For two hours we ascended slowly through a thicket of aspen,the cold continually intensifying; but the trail, which had beengrowing fainter, died out, and an opening showed the top of Storm Peaknot far off and not much above us, though it is 11,000 feet high. Icould not help laughing. He had deliberately turned his back on EstesPark. He then confessed that he was lost, and that he could not findthe way back. His wife sat down on the ground and cried bitterly. Weate some dry bread, and then I said I had had much experience intraveling, and would take the control of the party, which was agreedto, and we began the long descent. Soon after his wife was thrown fromher horse, and cried bitterly again from fright and mortification.Soon after that the girth of the mule's saddle broke, and having nocrupper, saddle and addenda went over his head, and the flour wasdispersed. Next the girth of the woman's saddle broke, and she wentover her horse's head. Then he began to fumble helplessly at it,railing against England the whole time, while I secured the saddle, andguided the route back to an outlet of the park. There a fire wasbuilt, and we had some bread and bacon; and then a search for wateroccupied nearly two hours, and resulted in the finding of a mudhole,trodden and defiled by hundreds of feet of elk, bears, cats, deer, andother beasts, and containing only a few gallons of water as thick aspea soup, with which we watered our animals and made some strong tea.

The sun was setting in glory as we started for the four hours' ridehome, and the frost was intense, and made our bruised, grazed limbsache painfully. I was sorry for Mrs. Chalmers, who had had severalfalls, and bore her aches patiently, and had said several times to herhusband, with a kind meaning, "I am real sorry for this woman." I wasso tired with the perpetual stumbling of my horse, as well as stiffenedwith the bitter cold, that I walked for the last hour or two; andChalmers, as if to cover his failure, indulged in loud, incessant talk,abusing all other religionists, and railing against England in thecoarsest American fashion. Yet, after all, they were not bad souls;and though he failed so grotesquely, he did his incompetent best. Thelog fire in the ruinous cabin was cheery, and I kept it up all night,and watched the stars through the holes in the roof, and thought ofLong's Peak in its glorious solitude, and resolved that, come whatmight, I would reach Estes Park.

I. L. B.

Letter VI

A bronco mare—An accident—Wonderland—A sad story—The children ofthe Territories—Hard greed—Halcyon hours—Smartness—Old-fashionedprejudices—The Chicago colony—Good luck—Three notes of admiration—Agood horse—The St. Vrain—The Rocky Mountains at last—"MountainJim"—A death hug—Estes Park.

LOWER CANYON, September 25.

This is another world. My entrance upon it was signalized in thisfashion. Chalmers offered me a bronco mare for a reasonable sum, andthough she was a shifty, half-broken young thing, I came over here onher to try her, when, just as I was going away, she took into her headto "scare" and "buck," and when I touched her with my foot she leapedover a heap of timber, and the girth gave way, and the onlookers tellme that while she jumped I fell over her tail from a good height uponthe hard gravel, receiving a parting kick on my knee. They couldhardly believe that no bones were broken. The flesh of my left armlooks crushed into a jelly, but cold-water dressings will soon bring itright; and a cut on my back bled profusely; and the bleeding, with manybruises and the general shake, have made me feel weak, butcircumstances do not admit of "making a fuss," and I really think thatthe rents in my riding dress will prove the most important part of theaccident.

The surroundings here are pleasing. The log cabin, on the top of whicha room with a steep, ornamental Swiss roof has been built, is in avalley close to a clear, rushing river, which emerges a little higherup from an inaccessible chasm of great sublimity. One side of thevalley is formed by cliffs and terraces of porphyry as red as thereddest new brick, and at sunset blazing into vermilion. Throughrifts in the nearer ranges there are glimpses of pine-clothed peaks,which, towards twilight, pass through every shade of purple andviolet. The sky and the earth combine to form a Wonderland everyevening—such rich, velvety coloring in crimson and violet; such anorange, green, and vermilion sky; such scarlet and emerald clouds;such an extraordinary dryness and purity of atmosphere, and then theglorious afterglow which seems to blend earth and heaven! For color,the Rocky Mountains beat all I have seen. The air has been cold, butthe sun bright and hot during the last few days.

The story of my host is a story of misfortune. It indicates who shouldNOT come to Colorado.[11] He and his wife are under thirty-five. Theson of a London physician in large practice, with a liberal educationin the largest sense of the word, unusual culture and accomplishments,and the partner of a physician in good practice in the second city inEngland, he showed symptoms which threatened pulmonary disease. In anevil hour he heard of Colorado with its "unrivalled climate, boundlessresources," etc., and, fascinated not only by these materialadvantages, but by the notion of being able to found or reform societyon advanced social theories of his own, he became an emigrant. Mrs.Hughes is one of the most charming, and lovable women I have ever seen,and their marriage is an ideal one. Both are fitted to shine in anysociety, but neither had the slightest knowledge of domestic andfarming details. Dr. H. did not know how to saddle or harness a horse.Mrs. H. did not know whether you should put an egg into cold or hotwater when you meant to boil it! They arrived at Longmount, bought upthis claim, rather for the beauty of the scenery than for anysubstantial advantages, were cheated in land, goods, oxen, everything,and, to the discredit of the settlers, seemed to be regarded as fairgame. Everything has failed with them, and though they "rise early,and late take rest, and eat the bread of carefulness," they hardly keeptheir heads above water. A young Swiss girl, devoted to them both,works as hard as they do. They have one horse, no wagon, some poultry,and a few cows, but no "hired man." It is the hardest and least idealstruggle that I have ever seen made by educated people. They had alltheir experience to learn, and they have bought it by losses andhardships. That they have learnt so much surprises me. Dr. H. andthese two ladies built the upper room and the addition to the housewithout help. He has cropped the land himself, and has learned thedifficult art of milking cows. Mrs. H. makes all the clothes requiredfor a family of six, and her evenings, when the hard day's work is doneand she is ready to drop from fatigue, are spent in mending andpatching. The day is one long GRIND, without rest or enjoyment, or thepleasure of chance intercourse with cultivated people. The fewvisitors who have "happened in" are the thrifty wives of prosperoussettlers, full of housewifely pride, whose one object seems to be tomake Mrs. H. feel her inferiority to themselves. I wish she did take amore genuine interest in the "coming-on" of the last calf, theprospects of the squash crop, and the yield and price of butter; butthough she has learned to make excellent butter and bread, it is allagainst the grain. The children are delightful. The little boys arerefined, courteous, childish gentlemen, with love and tenderness totheir parents in all their words and actions. Never a rough or harshword is heard within the house. But the atmosphere of struggles anddifficulties has already told on these infants. They consider theirmother in all things, going without butter when they think the stock islow, bringing in wood and water too heavy for them to carry, anxiouslyspeculating on the winter prospect and the crops, yet withal the mostchildlike and innocent of children.

[11] The story is ended now. A few months after my visit Mrs. H. dieda few days after her confinement, and was buried on the bleak hillside, leaving her husband with five children under six years old, andDr. H. is a prosperous man on one of the sunniest islands of thePacific, with the devoted Swiss friend as his second wife.

One of the most painful things in the Western States and Territories isthe extinction of childhood. I have never seen any children, onlydebased imitations of men and women, cankered by greed and selfishness,and asserting and gaining complete independence of their parents at tenyears old. The atmosphere in which they are brought up is one ofgreed, godlessness, and frequently of profanity. Consequently thesesweet things seem like flowers in a desert.

Except for love, which here as everywhere raises life into the ideal,this is a wretched existence. The poor crops have been destroyed bygrasshoppers over and over again, and that talent deified here underthe name of "smartness" has taken advantage of Dr. H. in all bargains,leaving him with little except food for his children. Experience hasbeen dearly bought in all ways, and this instance of failure might be auseful warning to professional men without agricultural experience notto come and try to make a living by farming in Colorado.

My time here has passed very delightfully in spite of my regret andanxiety for this interesting family. I should like to stay longer,were it not that they have given up to me their straw bed, and Mrs. H.and her baby, a wizened, fretful child, sleep on the floor in my room,and Dr. H. on the floor downstairs, and the nights are frosty andchill. Work is the order of their day, and of mine, and at night, whenthe children are in bed, we three ladies patch the clothes and makeshirts, and Dr. H. reads Tennyson's poems, or we speak tenderly of thatworld of culture and noble deeds which seems here "the land very faroff," or Mrs. H. lays aside her work for a few minutes and reads somefavorite passage of prose or poetry, as I have seldom heard either readbefore, with a voice of large compass and exquisite tone, quick tointerpret every shade of the author's meaning, and soft, speaking eyes,moist with feeling and sympathy. These are our halcyon hours, when weforget the needs of the morrow, and that men still buy, sell, cheat,and strive for gold, and that we are in the Rocky Mountains, and thatit is near midnight. But morning comes hot and tiresome, and thenever-ending work is oppressive, and Dr. H. comes in from the field twoor three times in the day, dizzy and faint, and they condole with eachother, and I feel that the Colorado settler needs to be made of sternerstuff and to possess more adaptability.

To-day has been a very pleasant day for me, though I have only once satdown since 9 A.M., and it is now 5 P.M. I plotted that the devotedSwiss girl should go to the nearest settlement with two of the childrenfor the day in a neighbor's wagon, and that Dr. and Mrs. H. should getan afternoon of rest and sleep upstairs, while I undertook to do thework and make something of a cleaning. I had a large "wash" of my own,having been hindered last week by my bad arm, but a clothes wringerwhich screws on to the side of the tub is a great assistance, and byfolding the clothes before passing them through it, I make it serveinstead of mangle and iron. After baking the bread and thoroughlycleaning the churn and pails, I began upon the tins and pans, thecleaning of which had fallen into arrears, and was hard at work, verygreasy and grimy, when a man came in to know where to ford the riverwith his ox team, and as I was showing him he looked pityingly at me,saying, "Be you the new hired girl? Bless me, you're awful small!"

Yesterday we saved three cwt. of tomatoes for winter use, and about twotons of squash and pumpkin for the cattle, two of the former weighing140 lbs. I pulled nearly a quarter of an acre of maize, but it was ascanty crop, and the husks were poorly filled. I much prefer fieldwork to the scouring of greasy pans and to the wash tub, and both toeither sewing or writing.

This is not Arcadia. "Smartness," which consists in over-reaching yourneighbor in every fashion which is not illegal, is the quality which isheld in the greatest repute, and Mammon is the divinity. From ageneration brought up to worship the one and admire the other littlecan be hoped. In districts distant as this is from "ChurchOrdinances," there are three ways in which Sunday is spent: one, tomake it a day for visiting, hunting, and fishing; another, to spend itin sleeping and abstinence from work; and the third, to continue allthe usual occupations, consequently harvesting and felling and haulingtimber are to be seen in progress.

Last Sunday a man came here and put up a door, and said he didn'tbelieve in the Bible or in a God, and he wasn't going to sacrifice hischildren's bread to old-fashioned prejudices. There is a manifestindifference to the higher obligations of the law, "judgment, mercy andfaith"; but in the main the settlers are steady, there are few flagrantbreaches of morals, industry is the rule, life and property are farsafer than in England or Scotland, and the law of universal respect towomen is still in full force.

The days are now brilliant and the nights sharply frosty. People arepreparing for the winter. The tourists from the East are trooping intoDenver, and the surveying parties are coming down from the mountains.Snow has fallen on the higher ranges, and my hopes of getting to EstesPark are down at zero.

LONGMOUNT, September 25.

Yesterday was perfect. The sun was brilliant and the air cool andbracing. I felt better, and after a hard day's work and an eveningstroll with my friends in the glorious afterglow, I went to bedcheerful and hopeful as to the climate and its effect on my health.This morning I awoke with a sensation of extreme lassitude, and ongoing out, instead of the delicious atmosphere of yesterday, I foundintolerable suffocating heat, a BLAZING (not BRILLIANT) sun, and asirocco like a Victorian hot wind. Neuralgia, inflamed eyes, and asense of extreme prostration followed, and my acclimatized hosts weresomewhat similarly affected. The sparkle, the crystalline atmosphere,and the glory of color of yesterday, had all vanished. We had borroweda wagon, but Dr. H.'s strong but lazy horse and a feeble hired one madea poor span; and though the distance here is only twenty-two miles overlevel prairie, our tired animal, and losing the way three times, havekept us eight and a half hours in the broiling sun. All notions oflocality fail me on the prairie, and Dr. H. was not much better. Wetook wrong tracks, got entangled among fences, plunged through the deepmud of irrigation ditches, and were despondent. It was a miserabledrive, sitting on a heap of fodder under the angry sun. Half-way herewe camped at a river, now only a series of mud holes, and I fell asleepunder the imperfect shade of a cotton-wood tree, dreading the thoughtof waking and jolting painfully along over the dusty prairie in thedust-laden, fierce sirocco, under the ferocious sun. We never saw manor beast the whole day.

This is the "Chicago Colony," and it is said to be prospering, aftersome preliminary land swindles. It is as uninviting as Fort Collins.We first came upon dust-colored frame houses set down at intervals onthe dusty buff plain, each with its dusty wheat or barley fieldadjacent, the crop, not the product of the rains of heaven, but of themuddy overflow of "Irrigating Ditch No.2." Then comes a road made upof many converging wagon tracks, which stiffen into a wide stragglingstreet, in which glaring frame houses and a few shops stand opposite toeach other. A two-storey house, one of the whitest and most glaring,and without a veranda like all the others, is the "St. Vrain Hotel,"called after the St. Vrain River, out of which the ditch is taken whichenables Longmount to exist. Everything was broiling in the heat of theslanting sun, which all day long had been beating on the unshadedwooden rooms. The heat within was more sickening than outside, andblack flies covered everything, one's face included. We all satfighting the flies in my bedroom, which was cooler than elsewhere, tilla glorious sunset over the Rocky Range, some ten miles off, compelledus to go out and enjoy it. Then followed supper, Western fashion,without table-cloths, and all the "unattached" men of Longmount came inand fed silently and rapidly. It was a great treat to have tea todrink, as I had not tasted any for a fortnight. The landlord is ajovial, kindly man. I told him how my plans had faded, and how I wasreluctantly going on to-morrow to Denver and New York, being unable toget to Estes Park, and he said there might yet be a chance of some onecoming in to-night who would be going up. He soon came to my room andasked definitely what I could do—if I feared cold, if I could "roughit," if I could "ride horseback and lope." Estes Park and itssurroundings are, he says, "the most beautiful scenery in Colorado,"and "it's a real shame," he added, "for you not to see it." We hadhardly sat down to tea when he came, saying "You're in luck this time;two young men have just come in and are going up to-morrow morning." Iam rather pleased, and have hired a horse for three days; but I am notvery hopeful, for I am almost ill of the smothering heat, and stillsuffer from my fall, and not having been on horseback since, thirtymiles will be a long ride. Then I fear that the accommodation is asrough as Chalmers's, and that solitude will be impossible. We havebeen strolling in the street every since it grew dark to get the littleair which is moving.

ESTES PARK!!! September 28.

I wish I could let those three notes of admiration go to you instead ofa letter. They mean everything that is rapturous anddelightful—grandeur, cheerfulness, health, enjoyment, novelty,freedom, etc., etc. I have just dropped into the very place I havebeen seeking, but in everything it exceeds all my dreams. There ishealth in every breath of air; I am much better already, and get up toa seven o'clock breakfast without difficulty. It is quitecomfortable—in the fashion that I like. I have a log cabin, raised onsix posts, all to myself, with a skunk's lair underneath it, and asmall lake close to it. There is a frost every night, and all day itis cool enough for a roaring fire. The ranchman, who is half-hunter,half-stockman, and his wife are jovial, hearty Welsh people fromLlanberis, who laugh with loud, cheery British laughs, sing in partsdown to the youngest child, are free hearted and hospitable, and pilethe pitch-pine logs half-way up the great rude chimney. There has beenfresh meat each day since I came, delicious bread baked daily,excellent potatoes, tea and coffee, and an abundant supply of milk likecream. I have a clean hay bed with six blankets, and there are neitherbugs nor fleas. The scenery is the most glorious I have ever seen, andis above us, around us, at the very door. Most people have advized meto go to Colorado Springs, and only one mentioned this place, and tillI reached Longmount I never saw any one who had been here, but I sawfrom the lie of the country that it must be most superbly situated.People said, however, that it was most difficult of access, and thatthe season for it was over. In traveling there is nothing likedissecting people's statements, which are usually colored by theirestimate of the powers or likings of the person spoken to, making allreasonable inquiries, and then pertinaciously but quietly carrying outone's own plans. This is perfection, and all the requisites for healthare present, including plenty of horses and grass to ride on.

It is not easy to sit down to write after ten hours of hard riding,especially in a cabin full of people, and wholesome fatigue may make myletter flat when it ought to be enthusiastic. I was awake all night atLongmount owing to the stifling heat, and got up nervous and miserable,ready to give up the thought of coming here, but the sunrise over thePlains, and the wonderful red of the Rocky Mountains, as they reflectedthe eastern sky, put spirit into me. The landlord had got a horse, butcould not give any satisfactory assurances of his being quiet, andbeing much shaken by my fall at Canyon, I earnestly wished that theGreeley Tribune had not given me a reputation for horsemanship, whichhad preceded me here. The young men who were to escort me "seemed veryinnocent," he said, but I have not arrived at his meaning yet. Whenthe horse appeared in the street at 8:30, I saw, to my dismay, ahigh-bred, beautiful creature, stable kept, with arched neck, quiveringnostrils, and restless ears and eyes. My pack, as on Hawaii, wasstrapped behind the Mexican saddle, and my canvas bag hung on the horn,but the horse did not look fit to carry "gear," and seemed to requiretwo men to hold and coax him. There were many loafers about, and Ishrank from going out and mounting in my old Hawaiian riding dress,though Dr. and Mrs. H. assured me that I looked quite "insignificantand unnoticeable." We got away at nine with repeated injunctions fromthe landlord in the words, "Oh, you should be heroic!"

The sky was cloudless, and a deep brilliant blue, and though the sunwas hot the air was fresh and bracing. The ride for glory and delightI shall label along with one to Hanalei, and another to Mauna Kea,Hawaii. I felt better quite soon; the horse in gait and temper turnedout perfection—all spring and spirit, elastic in his motion, walkingfast and easily, and cantering with a light, graceful swing as soon asone pressed the reins on his neck, a blithe, joyous animal, to whom aday among the mountains seemed a pleasant frolic. So gentle he was,that when I got off and walked he followed me without being led, andwithout needing any one to hold him he allowed me to mount on eitherside. In addition to the charm of his movements he has the catlikesure-footedness of a Hawaiian horse, and fords rapid and rough-bottomedrivers, and gallops among stones and stumps, and down steep hills, withequal security. I could have ridden him a hundred miles as easily asthirty. We have only been together two days, yet we are firm friends,and thoroughly understand each other. I should not require anothercompanion on a long mountain tour. All his ways are those of an animalbrought up without curb, whip, or spur, trained by the voice, and usedonly to kindness, as is happily the case with the majority of horses inthe Western States. Consequently, unless they are broncos, theyexercise their intelligence for your advantage, and do their workrather as friends than as machines.

I soon began not only to feel better, but to be exhilarated with thedelightful motion. The sun was behind us, and puffs of a cool elasticair came down from the glorious mountains in front. We cantered acrosssix miles of prairie, and then reached the beautiful canyon of the St.Vrain, which, towards its mouth, is a narrow, fertile, wooded valley,through which a bright rapid river, which we forded many times, hurriesalong, with twists and windings innumerable. Ah, how brightly itsripples danced in the glittering sunshine, and how musically its watersmurmured like the streams of windward Hawaii! We lost our way over andover again, though the "innocent" young men had been there before;indeed, it would require some talent to master the intricacies of thatdevious trail, but settlers making hay always appeared in the nick oftime to put us on the right track. Very fair it was, after the brownand burning plains, and the variety was endless. Cotton-wood treeswere green and bright, aspens shivered in gold tremulousness, wildgrape-vines trailed their lemon-colored foliage along the ground, andthe Virginia creeper hung its crimson sprays here and there, lighteningup green and gold into glory. Sometimes from under the cool and boweryshade of the colored tangle we passed into the cool St. Vrain, and thenwere wedged between its margin and lofty cliffs and terraces ofincredibly staring, fantastic rocks, lined, patched, and splashed withcarmine, vermilion, greens of all tints, blue, yellow, orange, violet,deep crimson, coloring that no artist would dare to represent, and ofwhich, in sober prose, I scarcely dare tell. Long's wonderful peaks,which hitherto had gleamed above the green, now disappeared, to be seenno more for twenty miles. We entered on an ascending valley, where thegorgeous hues of the rocks were intensified by the blue gloom of thepitch pines, and then taking a track to the north-west, we left thesofter world behind, and all traces of man and his works, and plungedinto the Rocky Mountains.

There were wonderful ascents then up which I led my horse; wildfantastic views opening up continually, a recurrence of surprises; theair keener and purer with every mile, the sensation of loneliness moresingular. A tremendous ascent among rocks and pines to a height of9,000 feet brought us to a passage seven feet wide through a wall ofrock, with an abrupt descent of 2,000 feet, and a yet higher ascentbeyond. I never saw anything so strange as looking back. It was asingle gigantic ridge which we had passed through, standing upknifelike, built up entirely of great brick-shaped masses of bright redrock, some of them as large as the Royal Institution, Edinburgh, piledone on another by Titans. Pitch pines grew out of their crevices, butthere was not a vestige of soil. Beyond, wall beyond wall of similarconstruction, and range above range, rose into the blue sky. Fifteenmiles more over great ridges, along passes dark with shadow, and sonarrow that we had to ride in the beds of the streams which hadexcavated them, round the bases of colossal pyramids of rock crestedwith pines, up into fair upland "parks," scarlet in patches with thepoison oak, parks so beautifully arranged by nature that I momentarilyexpected to come upon some stately mansion, but that afternoon crestedblue jays and chipmunks had them all to themselves. Here, in the earlymorning, deer, bighorn, and the stately elk, come down to feed, andthere, in the night, prowl and growl the Rocky Mountain lion, thegrizzly bear, and the cowardly wolf. There were chasms of immensedepth, dark with the indigo gloom of pines, and mountains with snowgleaming on their splintered crests, loveliness to bewilder andgrandeur to awe, and still streams and shady pools, and cool depths ofshadow; mountains again, dense with pines, among which patches of aspengleamed like gold; valleys where the yellow cotton-wood mingled withthe crimson oak, and so, on and on through the lengthening shadows,till the trail, which in places had been hardly legible, became welldefined, and we entered a long gulch with broad swellings of grassbelted with pines.

A very pretty mare, hobbled, was feeding; a collie dog barked at us,and among the scrub, not far from the track, there was a rude, blacklog cabin, as rough as it could be to be a shelter at all, with smokecoming out of the roof and window. We diverged towards it; it matterednot that it was the home, or rather den, of a notorious "ruffian" and"desperado." One of my companions had disappeared hours before, theremaining one was a town-bred youth. I longed to speak to some one wholoved the mountains. I called the hut a DEN—it looked like the den ofa wild beast. The big dog lay outside it in a threatening attitude andgrowled. The mud roof was covered with lynx, beaver, and other furslaid out to dry, beaver paws were pinned out on the logs, a part of thecarcass of a deer hung at one end of the cabin, a skinned beaver lay infront of a heap of peltry just within the door, and antlers of deer,old horseshoes, and offal of many animals, lay about the den.

Roused by the growling of the dog, his owner came out, a broad,thickset man, about the middle height, with an old cap on his head, andwearing a grey hunting suit much the worse for wear (almost falling topieces, in fact), a digger's scarf knotted round his waist, a knife inhis belt, and "a bosom friend," a revolver, sticking out of the breastpocket of his coat; his feet, which were very small, were bare, exceptfor some dilapidated moccasins made of horse hide. The marvel was howhis clothes hung together, and on him. The scarf round his waist musthave had something to do with it. His face was remarkable. He is aman about forty-five, and must have been strikingly handsome. He haslarge grey-blue eyes, deeply set, with well-marked eyebrows, a handsomeaquiline nose, and a very handsome mouth. His face was smooth shavenexcept for a dense mustache and imperial. Tawny hair, in thinuncared-for curls, fell from under his hunter's cap and over hiscollar. One eye was entirely gone, and the loss made one side of theface repulsive, while the other might have been modeled in marble."Desperado" was written in large letters all over him. I almostrepented of having sought his acquaintance. His first impulse was toswear at the dog, but on seeing a lady he contented himself withkicking him, and coming to me he raised his cap, showing as he did so amagnificently-formed brow and head, and in a cultured tone of voiceasked if there were anything he could do for me? I asked for somewater, and he brought some in a battered tin, gracefully apologizingfor not having anything more presentable. We entered intoconversation, and as he spoke I forgot both his reputation andappearance, for his manner was that of a chivalrous gentleman, hisaccent refined, and his language easy and elegant. I inquired aboutsome beavers' paws which were drying, and in a moment they hung on thehorn of my saddle. Apropos of the wild animals of the region, he toldme that the loss of his eye was owing to a recent encounter with agrizzly bear, which, after giving him a death hug, tearing him allover, breaking his arm and scratching out his eye, had left him fordead. As we rode away, for the sun was sinking, he said, courteously,"You are not an American. I know from your voice that you are acountrywoman of mine. I hope you will allow me the pleasure of callingon you." [12]

[12] Of this unhappy man, who was shot nine months later within twomiles of his cabin, I write in the subsequent letters only as heappeared to me. His life, without doubt, was deeply stained withcrimes and vices, and his reputation for ruffianism was a deserved one.But in my intercourse with him I saw more of his nobler instincts thanof the darker parts of his character, which, unfortunately for himselfand others, showed itself in its worst colors at the time of his tragicend. It was not until after I left Colorado, not indeed until afterhis death, that I heard of the worst points of his character.

This man, known through the Territories and beyond them as "RockyMountain Jim," or, more briefly, as "Mountain Jim," is one of thefamous scouts of the Plains, and is the original of some daringportraits in fiction concerning Indian Frontier warfare. So far as Ihave at present heard, he is a man for whom there is now no room, forthe time for blows and blood in this part of Colorado is past, and thefame of many daring exploits is sullied by crimes which are not easilyforgiven here. He now has a "squatter's claim," but makes his livingas a trapper, and is a complete child of the mountains. Of his geniusand chivalry to women there does not appear to be any doubt; but he isa desperate character, and is subject to "ugly fits," when people thinkit best to avoid him. It is here regarded as an evil that he haslocated himself at the mouth of the only entrance to the park, for heis dangerous with his pistols, and it would be safer if he were nothere. His besetting sin is indicated in the verdict pronounced on himby my host: "When he's sober Jim's a perfect gentleman; but when he'shad liquor he's the most awful ruffian in Colorado."

From the ridge on which this gulch terminates, at a height of 9,000feet, we saw at last Estes Park, lying 1,500 feet below in the glory ofthe setting sun, an irregular basin, lighted up by the bright waters ofthe rushing Thompson, guarded by sentinel mountains of fantastic shapeand monstrous size, with Long's Peak rising above them all inunapproachable grandeur, while the Snowy Range, with its outlying spursheavily timbered, come down upon the park slashed by stupendous canyonslying deep in purple gloom. The rushing river was blood red, Long'sPeak was aflame, the glory of the glowing heaven was given back fromearth. Never, nowhere, have I seen anything to equal the view intoEstes Park. The mountains "of the land which is very far off" are verynear now, but the near is more glorious than the far, and reality thandreamland. The mountain fever seized me, and, giving my tireless horseone encouraging word, he dashed at full gallop over a mile of smoothsward at delirious speed.

But I was hungry, and the air was frosty, and I was wondering what theprospects of food and shelter were in this enchanted region, when wecame suddenly upon a small lake, close to which was a very trim-lookinglog cabin, with a flat mud roof, with four smaller ones; picturesquelydotted about near it, two corrals,[13] a long shed, in front of which asteer was being killed, a log dairy with a water wheel, some hay piles,and various evidences of comfort; and two men, on serviceable horses,were just bringing in some tolerable cows to be milked. A short,pleasant-looking man ran up to me and shook hands gleefully, whichsurprised me; but he has since told me that in the evening light hethought I was "Mountain Jim, dressed up as a woman!" I recognized inhim a countryman, and he introduced himself as Griffith Evans, aWelshman from the slate quarries near Llanberis. When the cabin doorwas opened I saw a good-sized log room, unchinked, however, withwindows of infamous glass, looking two ways; a rough stone fireplace,in which pine logs, half as large as I am, were burning; a boardedfloor, a round table, two rocking chairs, a carpet-covered backwoodscouch; and skins, Indian bows and arrows, wampum belts, and antlers,fitly decorated the rough walls, and equally fitly, rifles were stuckup in the corners. Seven men, smoking, were lying about on the floor,a sick man lay on the couch, and a middle-aged lady sat at the tablewriting. I went out again and asked Evans if he could take me in,expecting nothing better than a shakedown; but, to my joy, he told mehe could give me a cabin to myself, two minutes' walk from his own. Soin this glorious upper world, with the mountain pines behind and theclear lake in front, in the "blue hollow at the foot of Long's Peak,"at a height of 7,500 feet, where the hoar frost crisps the grass everynight of the year, I have found far more than I ever dared to hope for.

[13] A corral is a fenced enclosure for cattle. This word, withbronco, ranch, and a few others, are adaptations from the Spanish, andare used as extensively throughout California and the Territories as isthe Spanish or Mexican saddle.

I. L. B.

Letter VII

Personality of Long's Peak—"Mountain Jim"—Lake of the Lilies—Asilent forest—The camping ground—"Ring"—A lady's bower—Dawn andsunrise—A glorious view—Links of diamonds—The ascent of thePeak—The "Dog's Lift"—Suffering from thirst—The descent—The bivouac.

ESTES PARK, COLORADO, October.

As this account of the ascent of Long's Peak could not be written atthe time, I am much disinclined to write it, especially as no sort ofdescription within my powers could enable another to realize theglorious sublimity, the majestic solitude, and the unspeakableawfulness and fascination of the scenes in which I spent Monday,Tuesday, and Wednesday.

Long's Peak, 14,700 feet high, blocks up one end of Estes Park, anddwarfs all the surrounding mountains. From it on this side rise,snow-born, the bright St. Vrain, and the Big and Little Thompson. Bysunlight or moonlight its splintered grey crest is the one objectwhich, in spite of wapiti and bighorn, skunk and grizzly, unfailinglyarrests the eyes. From it come all storms of snow and wind, and theforked lightnings play round its head like a glory. It is one of thenoblest of mountains, but in one's imagination it grows to be much morethan a mountain. It becomes invested with a personality. In itscaverns and abysses one comes to fancy that it generates and chains thestrong winds, to let them loose in its fury. The thunder becomes itsvoice, and the lightnings do it homage. Other summits blush under themorning kiss of the sun, and turn pale the next moment; but it detainsthe first sunlight and holds it round its head for an hour at least,till it pleases to change from rosy red to deep blue; and the sunset,as if spell-bound, lingers latest on its crest. The soft winds whichhardly rustle the pine needles down here are raging rudely up thereround its motionless summit. The mark of fire is upon it; and thoughit has passed into a grim repose, it tells of fire and upheaval astruly, though not as eloquently, as the living volcanoes of Hawaii.Here under its shadow one learns how naturally nature worship, and thepropitiation of the forces of nature, arose in minds which had nobetter light.

Long's Peak, "the American Matterhorn," as some call it, was ascendedfive years ago for the first time. I thought I should like to attemptit, but up to Monday, when Evans left for Denver, cold water was thrownupon the project. It was too late in the season, the winds were likelyto be strong, etc.; but just before leaving, Evans said that theweather was looking more settled, and if I did not get farther than thetimber line it would be worth going. Soon after he left, "MountainJim" came in, and said he would go up as guide, and the two youths whorode here with me from Longmount and I caught at the proposal. Mrs.Edwards at once baked bread for three days, steaks were cut from thesteer which hangs up conveniently, and tea, sugar, and butter werebenevolently added. Our picnic was not to be a luxurious or"well-found" one, for, in order to avoid the expense of a pack mule, welimited our luggage to what our saddle horses could carry. Behind mysaddle I carried three pair of camping blankets and a quilt, whichreached to my shoulders. My own boots were so much worn that it waspainful to walk, even about the park, in them, so Evans had lent me apair of his hunting boots, which hung to the horn of my saddle. Thehorses of the two young men were equally loaded, for we had to preparefor many degrees of frost. "Jim" was a shocking figure; he had on anold pair of high boots, with a baggy pair of old trousers made of deerhide, held on by an old scarf tucked into them; a leather shirt, withthree or four ragged unbuttoned waistcoats over it; an old smashedwideawake, from under which his tawny, neglected ringlets hung; andwith his one eye, his one long spur, his knife in his belt, hisrevolver in his waistcoat pocket, his saddle covered with an old beaverskin, from which the paws hung down; his camping blankets behind him,his rifle laid across the saddle in front of him, and his axe, canteen,and other gear hanging to the horn, he was as awful-looking a ruffianas one could see. By way of contrast he rode a small Arab mare, ofexquisite beauty, skittish, high spirited, gentle, but altogether toolight for him, and he fretted her incessantly to make her displayherself.

Heavily loaded as all our horses were, "Jim" started over the half-mileof level grass at a hard gallop, and then throwing his mare on herhaunches, pulled up alongside of me, and with a grace of manner whichsoon made me forget his appearance, entered into a conversation whichlasted for more than three hours, in spite of the manifold checks offording streams, single file, abrupt ascents and descents, and otherincidents of mountain travel. The ride was one series of glories andsurprises, of "park" and glade, of lake and stream, of mountains onmountains, culminating in the rent pinnacles of Long's Peak, whichlooked yet grander and ghastlier as we crossed an attendant mountain11,000 feet high. The slanting sun added fresh beauty every hour.There were dark pines against a lemon sky, grey peaks reddening andetherealizing, gorges of deep and infinite blue, floods of golden glorypouring through canyons of enormous depth, an atmosphere of absolutepurity, an occasional foreground of cottonwood and aspen flaunting inred and gold to intensify the blue gloom of the pines, the trickle andmurmur of streams fringed with icicles, the strange sough of gustsmoving among the pine tops—sights and sounds not of the lower earth,but of the solitary, beast-haunted, frozen upper altitudes. From thedry, buff grass of Estes Park we turned off up a trail on the side of apine-hung gorge, up a steep pine-clothed hill, down to a small valley,rich in fine, sun-cured hay about eighteen inches high, and enclosed byhigh mountains whose deepest hollow contains a lily-covered lake, fitlynamed "The Lake of the Lilies." Ah, how magical its beauty was, as itslept in silence, while THERE the dark pines were mirrored motionlessin its pale gold, and HERE the great white lily cups and dark greenleaves rested on amethyst-colored water!

From this we ascended into the purple gloom of great pine forests whichclothe the skirts of the mountains up to a height of about 11,000 feet,and from their chill and solitary depths we had glimpses of goldenatmosphere and rose-lit summits, not of "the land very far off," but ofthe land nearer now in all its grandeur, gaining in sublimity bynearness—glimpses, too, through a broken vista of purple gorges, ofthe illimitable Plains lying idealized in the late sunlight, theirbaked, brown expanse transfigured into the likeness of a sunset searolling infinitely in waves of misty gold.

We rode upwards through the gloom on a steep trail blazed through theforest, all my intellect concentrated on avoiding being dragged off myhorse by impending branches, or having the blankets badly torn, asthose of my companions were, by sharp dead limbs, between which therewas hardly room to pass—the horses breathless, and requiring to stopevery few yards, though their riders, except myself, were afoot. Thegloom of the dense, ancient, silent forest is to me awe inspiring. Onsuch an evening it is soundless, except for the branches creaking inthe soft wind, the frequent snap of decayed timber, and a murmur in thepine tops as of a not distant waterfall, all tending to produceEERINESS and a sadness "hardly akin to pain." There no lumberer's axehas ever rung. The trees die when they have attained their prime, andstand there, dead and bare, till the fierce mountain winds lay themprostrate. The pines grew smaller and more sparse as we ascended, andthe last stragglers wore a tortured, warring look. The timber line waspassed, but yet a little higher a slope of mountain meadow dipped tothe south-west towards a bright stream trickling under ice and icicles,and there a grove of the beautiful silver spruce marked our campingground. The trees were in miniature, but so exquisitely arranged thatone might well ask what artist's hand had planted them, scattering themhere, clumping them there, and training their slim spires towardsheaven. Hereafter, when I call up memories of the glorious, the viewfrom this camping ground will come up. Looking east, gorges opened tothe distant Plains, then fading into purple grey. Mountains withpine-clothed skirts rose in ranges, or, solitary, uplifted their greysummits, while close behind, but nearly 3,000 feet above us, toweredthe bald white crest of Long's Peak, its huge precipices red with thelight of a sun long lost to our eyes. Close to us, in the cavernedside of the Peak, was snow that, owing to its position, is eternal.Soon the afterglow came on, and before it faded a big half-moon hungout of the heavens, shining through the silver blue foliage of thepines on the frigid background of snow, and turning the whole intofairyland. The "photo" which accompanies this letter is by acourageous Denver artist who attempted the ascent just before Iarrived, but, after camping out at the timber line for a week, wasfoiled by the perpetual storms, and was driven down again, leaving somevery valuable apparatus about 3,000 feet from the summit.

Unsaddling and picketing the horses securely, making the beds of pineshoots, and dragging up logs for fuel, warmed us all. "Jim" built up agreat fire, and before long we were all sitting around it at supper.It didn't matter much that we had to drink our tea out of the batteredmeat tins in which it was boiled, and eat strips of beef reeking withpine smoke without plates or forks.

"Treat Jim as a gentleman and you'll find him one," I had been told;and though his manner was certainly bolder and freer than that ofgentlemen generally, no imaginary fault could be found. He was veryagreeable as a man of culture as well as a child of nature; thedesperado was altogether out of sight. He was very courteous and evenkind to me, which was fortunate, as the young men had little idea ofshowing even ordinary civilities. That night I made the acquaintanceof his dog "Ring," said to be the best hunting dog in Colorado, withthe body and legs of a collie, but a head approaching that of amastiff, a noble face with a wistful human expression, and the mosttruthful eyes I ever saw in an animal. His master loves him if heloves anything, but in his savage moods ill-treats him. "Ring's"devotion never swerves, and his truthful eyes are rarely taken off hismaster's face. He is almost human in his intelligence, and, unless heis told to do so, he never takes notice of any one but "Jim." In atone as if speaking to a human being, his master, pointing to me, said,"Ring, go to that lady, and don't leave her again to-night." "Ring" atonce came to me, looked into my face, laid his head on my shoulder, andthen lay down beside me with his head on my lap, but never taking hiseyes from "Jim's" face.

The long shadows of the pines lay upon the frosted grass, an auroraleaped fitfully, and the moonlight, though intensely bright, was palebeside the red, leaping flames of our pine logs and their red glow onour gear, ourselves, and Ring's truthful face. One of the young mensang a Latin student's song and two Negro melodies; the other "SweetSpirit, hear my Prayer." "Jim" sang one of Moore's melodies in asingular falsetto, and all together sang, "The Star-spangled Banner"and "The Red, White, and Blue." Then "Jim" recited a very clever poemof his own composition, and told some fearful Indian stories. A groupof small silver spruces away from the fire was my sleeping place. Theartist who had been up there had so woven and interlaced their lowerbranches as to form a bower, affording at once shelter from the windand a most agreeable privacy. It was thickly strewn with young pineshoots, and these, when covered with a blanket, with an inverted saddlefor a pillow, made a luxurious bed. The mercury at 9 P.M. was 12degrees below the freezing point. "Jim," after a last look at thehorses, made a huge fire, and stretched himself out beside it, but"Ring" lay at my back to keep me warm. I could not sleep, but thenight passed rapidly. I was anxious about the ascent, for gusts ofominous sound swept through the pines at intervals. Then wild animalshowled, and "Ring" was perturbed in spirit about them. Then it wasstrange to see the notorious desperado, a red-handed man, sleeping asquietly as innocence sleeps. But, above all, it was exciting to liethere, with no better shelter than a bower of pines, on a mountain11,000 feet high, in the very heart of the Rocky Range, under twelvedegrees of frost, hearing sounds of wolves, with shivering starslooking through the fragrant canopy, with arrowy pines for bed-posts,and for a night lamp the red flames of a camp-fire.

Day dawned long before the sun rose, pure and lemon colored. The restwere looking after the horses, when one of the students came running totell me that I must come farther down the slope, for "Jim" said he hadnever seen such a sunrise. From the chill, grey Peak above, from theeverlasting snows, from the silvered pines, down through mountainranges with their depths of Tyrian purple, we looked to where thePlains lay cold, in blue-grey, like a morning sea against a farhorizon. Suddenly, as a dazzling streak at first, but enlargingrapidly into a dazzling sphere, the sun wheeled above the grey line, alight and glory as when it was first created. "Jim" involuntarily andreverently uncovered his head, and exclaimed, "I believe there is aGod!" I felt as if, Parsee-like, I must worship. The grey of thePlains changed to purple, the sky was all one rose-red flush, on whichvermilion cloud-streaks rested; the ghastly peaks gleamed like rubies,the earth and heavens were new created. Surely "the Most High dwellethnot in temples made with hands!" For a full hour those Plainssimulated the ocean, down to whose limitless expanse of purple, cliff,rocks, and promontories swept down.

By seven we had finished breakfast, and passed into the ghastliersolitudes above, I riding as far as what, rightly, or wrongly, arecalled the "Lava Beds," an expanse of large and small boulders, withsnow in their crevices. It was very cold; some water which we crossedwas frozen hard enough to bear the horse. "Jim" had advised me againsttaking any wraps, and my thin Hawaiian riding dress, only fit for thetropics, was penetrated by the keen air. The rarefied atmosphere soonbegan to oppress our breathing, and I found that Evans's boots were solarge that I had no foothold. Fortunately, before the real difficultyof the ascent began, we found, under a rock, a pair of small overshoes,probably left by the Hayden exploring expedition, which just lasted forthe day. As we were leaping from rock to rock, "Jim" said, "I wasthinking in the night about your traveling alone, and wondering whereyou carried your Derringer, for I could see no signs of it." On mytelling him that I traveled unarmed, he could hardly believe it, andadjured me to get a revolver at once.

On arriving at the "Notch" (a literal gate of rock), we found ourselvesabsolutely on the knifelike ridge or backbone of Long's Peak, only afew feet wide, covered with colossal boulders and fragments, and on theother side shelving in one precipitous, snow-patched sweep of 3,000feet to a picturesque hollow, containing a lake of pure green water.Other lakes, hidden among dense pine woods, were farther off, whileclose above us rose the Peak, which, for about 500 feet, is a smooth,gaunt, inaccessible-looking pile of granite. Passing through the"Notch," we looked along the nearly inaccessible side of the Peak,composed of boulders and debris of all shapes and sizes, through whichappeared broad, smooth ribs of reddish-colored granite, looking as ifthey upheld the towering rock mass above. I usually dislike bird's-eyeand panoramic views, but, though from a mountain, this was not one.Serrated ridges, not much lower than that on which we stood, rose, onebeyond another, far as that pure atmosphere could carry the vision,broken into awful chasms deep with ice and snow, rising into pinnaclespiercing the heavenly blue with their cold, barren grey, on, on forever, till the most distant range upbore unsullied snow alone. Therewere fair lakes mirroring the dark pine woods, canyons dark andblue-black with unbroken expanses of pines, snow-slashed pinnacles,wintry heights frowning upon lovely parks, watered and wooded, lying inthe lap of summer; North Park floating off into the blue distance,Middle Park closed till another season, the sunny slopes of Estes Park,and winding down among the mountains the snowy ridge of the Divide,whose bright waters seek both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. There,far below, links of diamonds showed where the Grand River takes itsrise to seek the mysterious Colorado, with its still unsolved enigma,and lose itself in the waters of the Pacific; and nearer the snow-bornThompson bursts forth from the ice to begin its journey to the Gulf ofMexico. Nature, rioting in her grandest mood, exclaimed with voices ofgrandeur, solitude, sublimity, beauty, and infinity, "Lord, what isman, that Thou art mindful of him? or the son of man, that Thouvisitest him?" Never-to-be-forgotten glories they were, burnt in uponmy memory by six succeeding hours of terror.

You know I have no head and no ankles, and never ought to dream ofmountaineering; and had I known that the ascent was a realmountaineering feat I should not have felt the slightest ambition toperform it. As it is, I am only humiliated by my success, for "Jim"dragged me up, like a bale of goods, by sheer force of muscle. At the"Notch" the real business of the ascent began. Two thousand feet ofsolid rock towered above us, four thousand feet of broken rock shelvedprecipitously below; smooth granite ribs, with barely foothold, stoodout here and there; melted snow refrozen several times, presented amore serious obstacle; many of the rocks were loose, and tumbled downwhen touched. To me it was a time of extreme terror. I was roped to"Jim," but it was of no use; my feet were paralyzed and slipped on thebare rock, and he said it was useless to try to go that way, and weretraced our steps. I wanted to return to the "Notch," knowing that myincompetence would detain the party, and one of the young men saidalmost plainly that a woman was a dangerous encumbrance, but thetrapper replied shortly that if it were not to take a lady up he wouldnot go up at all. He went on to explore, and reported that furtherprogress on the correct line of ascent was blocked by ice; and then fortwo hours we descended, lowering ourselves by our hands from rock torock along a boulder-strewn sweep of 4,000 feet, patched with ice andsnow, and perilous from rolling stones. My fatigue, giddiness, andpain from bruised ankles, and arms half pulled out of their sockets,were so great that I should never have gone halfway had not "Jim,"nolens volens, dragged me along with a patience and skill, and withal adetermination that I should ascend the Peak, which never failed. Afterdescending about 2,000 feet to avoid the ice, we got into a deep ravinewith inaccessible sides, partly filled with ice and snow and partlywith large and small fragments of rock, which were constantly givingaway, rendering the footing very insecure. That part to me was twohours of painful and unwilling submission to the inevitable; oftrembling, slipping, straining, of smooth ice appearing when it wasleast expected, and of weak entreaties to be left behind while theothers went on. "Jim" always said that there was no danger, that therewas only a short bad bit ahead, and that I should go up even if hecarried me!

Slipping, faltering, gasping from the exhausting toil in the rarefiedair, with throbbing hearts and panting lungs, we reached the top of thegorge and squeezed ourselves between two gigantic fragments of rock bya passage called the "Dog's Lift," when I climbed on the shoulders ofone man and then was hauled up. This introduced us by an abrupt turnround the south-west angle of the Peak to a narrow shelf ofconsiderable length, rugged, uneven, and so overhung by the cliff insome places that it is necessary to crouch to pass at all. Above, thePeak looks nearly vertical for 400 feet; and below, the most tremendousprecipice I have ever seen descends in one unbroken fall. This isusually considered the most dangerous part of the ascent, but it doesnot seem so to me, for such foothold as there is is secure, and onefancies that it is possible to hold on with the hands. But there, andon the final, and, to my thinking, the worst part of the climb, oneslip, and a breathing, thinking, human being would lie 3,000 feetbelow, a shapeless, bloody heap! "Ring" refused to traverse the Ledge,and remained at the "Lift" howling piteously.

From thence the view is more magnificent even than that from the"Notch." At the foot of the precipice below us lay a lovely lake, woodembosomed, from or near which the bright St. Vrain and other streamstake their rise. I thought how their clear cold waters, growing turbidin the affluent flats, would heat under the tropic sun, and eventuallyform part of that great ocean river which renders our far-off islandshabitable by impinging on their shores. Snowy ranges, one behind theother, extended to the distant horizon, folding in their wintry embracethe beauties of Middle Park. Pike's Peak, more than one hundred milesoff, lifted that vast but shapeless summit which is the landmark ofsouthern Colorado. There were snow patches, snow slashes, snowabysses, snow forlorn and soiled looking, snow pure and dazzling, snowglistening above the purple robe of pine worn by all the mountains;while away to the east, in limitless breadth, stretched the green-greyof the endless Plains. Giants everywhere reared their splinteredcrests. From thence, with a single sweep, the eye takes in a distanceof 300 miles—that distance to the west, north, and south being made upof mountains ten, eleven, twelve, and thirteen thousand feet in height,dominated by Long's Peak, Gray's Peak, and Pike's Peak, all nearly theheight of Mont Blanc! On the Plains we traced the rivers by theirfringe of cottonwoods to the distant Platte, and between us and themlay glories of mountain, canyon, and lake, sleeping in depths of blueand purple most ravishing to the eye.

As we crept from the ledge round a horn of rock I beheld what made meperfectly sick and dizzy to look at—the terminal Peak itself—asmooth, cracked face or wall of pink granite, as nearly perpendicularas anything could well be up which it was possible to climb, welldeserving the name of the "American Matterhorn." [14]

[14] Let no practical mountaineer be allured by my description into theascent of Long's Peak. Truly terrible as it was to me, to a member ofthe Alpine Club it would not be a feat worth performing.

SCALING, not climbing, is the correct term for this last ascent. Ittook one hour to accomplish 500 feet, pausing for breath every minuteor two. The only foothold was in narrow cracks or on minuteprojections on the granite. To get a toe in these cracks, or here andthere on a scarcely obvious projection, while crawling on hands andknees, all the while tortured with thirst and gasping and strugglingfor breath, this was the climb; but at last the Peak was won. A grand,well-defined mountain top it is, a nearly level acre of boulders, withprecipitous sides all round, the one we came up being the onlyaccessible one.

It was not possible to remain long. One of the young men was seriouslyalarmed by bleeding from the lungs, and the intense dryness of the dayand the rarefication of the air, at a height of nearly 15,000 feet,made respiration very painful. There is always water on the Peak, butit was frozen as hard as a rock, and the sucking of ice and snowincreases thirst. We all suffered severely from the want of water, andthe gasping for breath made our mouths and tongues so dry thatarticulation was difficult, and the speech of all unnatural.

From the summit were seen in unrivalled combination all the views whichhad rejoiced our eyes during the ascent. It was something at last tostand upon the storm-rent crown of this lonely sentinel of the RockyRange, on one of the mightiest of the vertebrae of the backbone of theNorth American continent, and to see the waters start for both oceans.Uplifted above love and hate and storms of passion, calm amidst theeternal silences, fanned by zephyrs and bathed in living blue, peacerested for that one bright day on the Peak, as if it were some region

Where falls not rain, or hail, or any snow,
Or ever wind blows loudly.

We placed our names, with the date of ascent, in a tin within acrevice, and descended to the Ledge, sitting on the smooth granite,getting our feet into cracks and against projections, and lettingourselves down by our hands, "Jim" going before me, so that I mightsteady my feet against his powerful shoulders. I was no longer giddy,and faced the precipice of 3,500 feet without a shiver. Repassing theLedge and Lift, we accomplished the descent through 1,500 feet of iceand snow, with many falls and bruises, but no worse mishap, and thereseparated, the young men taking the steepest but most direct way to the"Notch," with the intention of getting ready for the march home, and"Jim" and I taking what he thought the safer route for me—a descentover boulders for 2,000 feet, and then a tremendous ascent to the"Notch." I had various falls, and once hung by my frock, which caughton a rock, and "Jim" severed it with his hunting knife, upon which Ifell into a crevice full of soft snow. We were driven lower down themountains than he had intended by impassable tracts of ice, and theascent was tremendous. For the last 200 feet the boulders were ofenormous size, and the steepness fearful. Sometimes I drew myself upon hands and knees, sometimes crawled; sometimes "Jim" pulled me up bymy arms or a lariat, and sometimes I stood on his shoulders, or he madesteps for me of his feet and hands, but at six we stood on the "Notch"in the splendor of the sinking sun, all color deepening, all peaksglorifying, all shadows purpling, all peril past.

"Jim" had parted with his brusquerie when we parted from the students,and was gentle and considerate beyond anything, though I knew that hemust be grievously disappointed, both in my courage and strength.Water was an object of earnest desire. My tongue rattled in my mouth,and I could hardly articulate. It is good for one's sympathies to havefor once a severe experience of thirst. Truly, there was

Water, water, everywhere,
But not a drop to drink.

Three times its apparent gleam deceived even the mountaineer'spracticed eye, but we found only a foot of "glare ice." At last, in adeep hole, he succeeded in breaking the ice, and by putting one's armfar down one could scoop up a little water in one's hand, but it wastormentingly insufficient. With great difficulty and much assistance Irecrossed the "Lava Beds," was carried to the horse and lifted uponhim, and when we reached the camping ground I was lifted off him, andlaid on the ground wrapped up in blankets, a humiliating termination ofa great exploit. The horses were saddled, and the young men were allready to start, but "Jim" quietly said, "Now, gentlemen, I want a goodnight's rest, and we shan't stir from here to-night." I believe theywere really glad to have it so, as one of them was quite "finished." Iretired to my arbor, wrapped myself in a roll of blankets, and was soonasleep.

When I woke, the moon was high shining through the silvery branches,whitening the bald Peak above, and glittering on the great abyss ofsnow behind, and pine logs were blazing like a bonfire in the coldstill air. My feet were so icy cold that I could not sleep again, andgetting some blankets to sit in, and making a roll of them for my back,I sat for two hours by the camp-fire. It was weird and gloriouslybeautiful. The students were asleep not far off in their blankets withtheir feet towards the fire. "Ring" lay on one side of me with hisfine head on my arm, and his master sat smoking, with the fire lightingup the handsome side of his face, and except for the tones of ourvoices, and an occasional crackle and splutter as a pine knot blazedup, there was no sound on the mountain side. The beloved stars of myfar-off home were overhead, the Plough and Pole Star, with their steadylight; the glittering Pleiades, looking larger than I ever saw them,and "Orion's studded belt" shining gloriously. Once only some wildanimals prowled near the camp, when "Ring," with one bound, disappearedfrom my side; and the horses, which were picketed by the stream, broketheir lariats, stampeded, and came rushing wildly towards the fire, andit was fully half an hour before they were caught and quiet wasrestored. "Jim," or Mr. Nugent, as I always scrupulously called him,told stories of his early youth, and of a great sorrow which had ledhim to embark on a lawless and desperate life. His voice trembled, andtears rolled down his cheek. Was it semi-conscious acting, I wondered,or was his dark soul really stirred to its depths by the silence, thebeauty, and the memories of youth?

We reached Estes Park at noon of the following day. A more successfulascent of the Peak was never made, and I would not now exchange mymemories of its perfect beauty and extraordinary sublimity for anyother experience of mountaineering in any part of the world. Yesterdaysnow fell on the summit, and it will be inaccessible for eight monthsto come.

I. L. B.

Letter VIII

Estes Park—Big game—"Parks" in Colorado—Magnificent scenery—Flowersand pines—An awful road—Our log cabin—Griffith Evans—A miniatureworld—Our topics—A night alarm—A skunk—Morning glories—Dailyroutine—The panic—"Wait for the wagon"—A musical evening.

ESTES PARK, COLORADO TERRITORY, October 2.

How time has slipped by I do not know. This is a glorious region, andthe air and life are intoxicating. I live mainly out of doors and onhorseback, wear my half-threadbare Hawaiian dress, sleep sometimesunder the stars on a bed of pine boughs, ride on a Mexican saddle, andhear once more the low music of my Mexican spurs. "There's a stranger!Heave arf a brick at him!" is said by many travelers to express thefeeling of the new settlers in these Territories. This is not myexperience in my cheery mountain home. How the rafters ring as I writewith songs and mirth, while the pitch-pine logs blaze and crackle inthe chimney, and the fine snow dust drives in through the chinks andforms mimic snow wreaths on the floor, and the wind raves and howls andplays among the creaking pine branches and snaps them short off, andthe lightning plays round the blasted top of Long's Peak, and the hardyhunters divert themselves with the thought that when I go to bed I mustturn out and face the storm!

You will ask, "What is Estes Park?" This name, with the quiet MidlandCountries' sound, suggests "park palings" well lichened, a lodge with acurtseying woman, fallow deer, and a Queen Anne mansion. Such as itis, Estes Park is mine. It is unsurveyed, "no man's land," and mine byright of love, appropriation, and appreciation; by the seizure of itspeerless sunrises and sunsets, its glorious afterglow, its blazingnoons, its hurricanes sharp and furious, its wild auroras, its gloriesof mountain and forest, of canyon, lake, and river, and thestereotyping them all in my memory. Mine, too, in a better than thesportsman's sense, are its majestic wapiti, which play and fight underthe pines in the early morning, as securely as fallow deer under ourEnglish oaks; its graceful "black-tails," swift of foot; its superbbighorns, whose noble leader is to be seen now and then with hisclassic head against the blue sky on the top of a colossal rock; itssneaking mountain lion with his hideous nocturnal caterwaulings, thegreat "grizzly," the beautiful skunk, the wary beaver, who is alwaysmaking lakes, damming and turning streams, cutting down youngcotton-woods, and setting an example of thrift and industry; the wolf,greedy and cowardly; the coyote and the lynx, and all the lesser fry ofmink, marten, cat, hare, fox, squirrel, and chipmunk, as well as thingsthat fly, from the eagle down to the crested blue-jay. May theirnumber never be less, in spite of the hunter who kills for food andgain, and the sportsman who kills and marauds for pastime!

But still I have not answered the natural question,[15] "What is EstesPark?" Among the striking peculiarities of these mountains arehundreds of high-lying valleys, large and small, at heights varyingfrom 6,000 to 11,000 feet. The most important are North Park, held byhostile Indians; Middle Park, famous for hot springs and trout; SouthPark is 10,000 feet high, a great rolling prairie seventy miles long,well grassed and watered, but nearly closed by snow in winter. Butparks innumerable are scattered throughout the mountains, most of themunnamed, and others nicknamed by the hunters or trappers who have madethem their temporary resorts. They always lie far within the flamingFoot Hills, their exquisite stretches of flowery pastures dottedartistically with clumps of trees sloping lawnlike to bright swiftstreams full of red-waist-coated trout, or running up in soft gladesinto the dark forest, above which the snow peaks rise in their infinitemajesty. Some are bits of meadow a mile long and very narrow, with asmall stream, a beaver dam, and a pond made by beaver industry.Hundreds of these can only be reached by riding in the bed of a stream,or by scrambling up some narrow canyon till it debouches on thefairy-like stretch above. These parks are the feeding grounds ofinnumerable wild animals, and some, like one three miles off, seemchosen for the process of antler-casting, the grass being covered forat least a square mile with the magnificent branching horns of the elk.

[15] Nor should I at this time, had not Henry Kingsley, Lord Dunraven,and "The Field," divulged the charms and whereabouts of these "happyhunting grounds," with the certain result of directing a stream oftourists into the solitary, beast-haunted paradise.

Estes Park combines the beauties of all. Dismiss all thoughts of theMidland Counties. For park palings there are mountains, forestskirted, 9,000, 11,000, 14,000 feet high; for a lodge, two sentinelpeaks of granite guarding the only feasible entrance; and for a QueenAnne mansion an unchinked log cabin with a vault of sunny blueoverhead. The park is most irregularly shaped, and contains hardly anylevel grass. It is an aggregate of lawns, slopes, and glades, abouteighteen miles in length, but never more than two miles in width. TheBig Thompson, a bright, rapid trout stream, snow born on Long's Peak afew miles higher, takes all sorts of magical twists, vanishing andreappearing unexpectedly, glancing among lawns, rushing throughromantic ravines, everywhere making music through the still, longnights. Here and there the lawns are so smooth, the trees soartistically grouped, a lake makes such an artistic foreground, or awaterfall comes tumbling down with such an apparent feeling for thepicturesque, that I am almost angry with Nature for her close imitationof art. But in another hundred yards Nature, glorious, unapproachable,inimitable, is herself again, raising one's thoughts reverently upwardsto her Creator and ours. Grandeur and sublimity, not softness, are thefeatures of Estes Park. The glades which begin so softly are soon lostin the dark primaeval forests, with their peaks of rosy granite, andtheir stretches of granite blocks piled and poised by nature in somemood of fury. The streams are lost in canyons nearly or quiteinaccessible, awful in their blackness and darkness; every valley endsin mystery; seven mountain ranges raise their frowning barriers betweenus and the Plains, and at the south end of the park Long's Peak risesto a height of 14,700 feet, with his bare, scathed head slashed witheternal snow. The lowest part of the Park is 7,500 feet high; andthough the sun is hot during the day, the mercury hovers near thefreezing point every night of the summer. An immense quantity of snowfalls, but partly owing to the tremendous winds which drift it into thedeep valleys, and partly to the bright warm sun of the winter months,the park is never snowed up, and a number of cattle and horses arewintered out of doors on its sun-cured saccharine grasses, of which thegramma grass is the most valuable.

The soil here, as elsewhere in the neighborhood, is nearly everywherecoarse, grey, granitic dust, produced probably by the disintegration ofthe surrounding mountains. It does not hold water, and is never wet inany weather. There are no thaws here. The snow mysteriously disappearsby rapid evaporation. Oats grow, but do not ripen, and, when welladvanced, are cut and stacked for winter fodder. Potatoes yieldabundantly, and, though not very large, are of the best quality, mealythroughout. Evans has not attempted anything else, and probably themore succulent vegetables would require irrigation. The wild flowersare gorgeous and innumerable, though their beauty, which culminates inJuly and August, was over before I arrived, and the recent snowflurries have finished them. The time between winter and winter isvery short, and the flowery growth and blossom of a whole year arecompressed into two months. Here are dandelions, buttercups,larkspurs, harebells, violets, roses, blue gentian, columbine,painter's brush, and fifty others, blue and yellow predominating; andthough their blossoms are stiffened by the cold every morning, they arestarring the grass and drooping over the brook long before noon, makingthe most of their brief lives in the sunshine. Of ferns, after many along hunt, I have only found the Cystopteris fragilis and the Blechnumspicant, but I hear that the Pteris aquilina is also found. Snakes andmosquitoes do not appear to be known here. Coming almost direct fromthe tropics, one is dissatisfied with the uniformity of the foliage;indeed, foliage can hardly be written of, as the trees properly socalled at this height are exclusively Coniferae, and bear needlesinstead of leaves. In places there are patches of spindly aspens,which have turned a lemon yellow, and along the streams bear cherries,vines, and roses lighten the gulches with their variegated crimsonleaves. The pines are not imposing, either from their girth or height.Their coloring is blackish green, and though they are effective singlyor in groups, they are somber and almost funereal when densely massed,as here, along the mountain sides. The timber line is at a height ofabout 11,000 feet, and is singularly well defined. The most attractivetree I have seen is the silver spruce, Abies Englemanii, near of kin towhat is often called the balsam fir. Its shape and color are bothbeautiful. My heart warms towards it, and I frequent all the placeswhere I can find it. It looks as if a soft, blue, silver powder hadfallen on its deep-green needles, or as if a bluish hoar-frost, whichmust melt at noon, were resting upon it. Anyhow, one can hardlybelieve that the beauty is permanent, and survives the summer heat andthe winter cold. The universal tree here is the Pinus ponderosa, butit never attains any very considerable size, and there is nothing tocompare with the red-woods of the Sierra Nevada, far less with thesequoias of California.

As I have written before, Estes Park is thirty miles from Longmount,the nearest settlement, and it can be reached on horseback only by thesteep and devious track by which I came, passing through a narrow riftin the top of a precipitous ridge, 9,000 feet high, called the Devil'sGate. Evans takes a lumber wagon with four horses over the mountains,and a Colorado engineer would have no difficulty in making a wagonroad. In several of the gulches over which the track hangs there arethe remains of wagons which have come to grief in the attempt toemulate Evans's feat, which without evidence, I should have supposed tobe impossible. It is an awful road. The only settlers in the park areGriffith Evans, and a married man a mile higher up. "Mountain Jim's"cabin is in the entrance gulch, four miles off, and there is notanother cabin for eighteen miles toward the Plains. The park isunsurveyed, and the huge tract of mountainous country beyond is almostaltogether unexplored. Elk hunters occasionally come up and camp outhere; but the two settlers, who, however, are only squatters, forvarious reasons are not disposed to encourage such visitors. WhenEvans, who is a very successful hunter, came here, he came on foot, andfor some time after settling here he carried the flour and necessariesrequired by his family on his back over the mountains.

As I intend to make Estes Park my headquarters until the winter setsin, I must make you acquainted with my surroundings and mode of living.The "Queen Anne mansion" is represented by a log cabin made of big hewnlogs. The chinks should be filled with mud and lime, but these arewanting. The roof is formed of barked young spruce, then a layer ofhay, and an outer coating of mud, all nearly flat. The floors areroughly boarded. The "living room" is about sixteen feet square, andhas a rough stone chimney in which pine logs are always burning. Atone end there is a door into a small bedroom, and at the other a doorinto a small eating room, at the table of which we feed in relays.This opens into a very small kitchen with a great Americancooking-stove, and there are two "bed closets" besides. Although rude,it is comfortable, except for the draughts. The fine snow drives inthrough the chinks and covers the floors, but sweeping it out atintervals is both fun and exercise. There are no heaps or rubbishplaces outside. Near it, on the slope under the pines, is a prettytwo-roomed cabin, and beyond that, near the lake, is my cabin, a veryrough one. My door opens into a little room with a stone chimney, andthat again into a small room with a hay bed, a chair with a tin basinon it, a shelf and some pegs. A small window looks on the lake, andthe glories of the sunrises which I see from it are indescribable.Neither of my doors has a lock, and, to say the truth, neither willshut, as the wood has swelled. Below the house, on the stream whichissues from the lake, there is a beautiful log dairy, with a waterwheel outside, used for churning. Besides this, there are a corral, ashed for the wagon, a room for the hired man, and shelters for horsesand weakly calves. All these things are necessaries at this height.

The ranchmen are two Welshmen, Evans and Edwards, each with a wife andfamily. The men are as diverse as they can be. "Griff," as Evans iscalled, is short and small, and is hospitable, careless, reckless,jolly, social, convivial, peppery, good natured, "nobody's enemy buthis own." He had the wit and taste to find out Estes Park, wherepeople have found him out, and have induced him to give them food andlodging, and add cabin to cabin to take them in. He is a splendidshot, an expert and successful hunter, a bold mountaineer, a goodrider, a capital cook, and a generally "jolly fellow." His cheerylaugh rings through the cabin from the early morning, and iscontagious, and when the rafters ring at night with such songs as "D'yeken John Peel?" "Auld Lang Syne," and "John Brown," what would thechorus be without poor "Griff's" voice? What would Estes Park bewithout him, indeed? When he went to Denver lately we missed him as weshould have missed the sunshine, and perhaps more. In the earlymorning, when Long's Peak is red, and the grass crackles with thehoar-frost, he arouses me with a cheery thump on my door. "We're goingcattle-hunting, will you come?" or, "Will you help to drive in thecattle? You can take your pick of the horses. I want another hand."Free-hearted, lavish, popular, poor "Griff" loves liquor too well forhis prosperity, and is always tormented by debt. He makes lots ofmoney, but puts it into "a bag with holes." He has fifty horses and1,000 head of cattle, many of which are his own, wintering up here, andmakes no end of money by taking in people at eight dollars a week, yetit all goes somehow. He has a most industrious wife, a girl ofseventeen, and four younger children, all musical, but the wife has towork like a slave; and though he is a kind husband, her lot, ascompared with her lord's, is like that of a squaw. Edwards, hispartner, is his exact opposite, tall, thin, and condemnatory looking,keen, industrious, saving, grave, a teetotaler, grieved for all reasonsat Evans's follies, and rather grudging; as naturally unpopular asEvans is popular; a "decent man," who, with his industrious wife, willcertainly make money as fast as Evans loses it.

I pay eight dollars a week, which includes the unlimited use of ahorse, when one can be found and caught. We breakfast at seven onbeef, potatoes, tea, coffee, new bread, and butter. Two pitchers ofcream and two of milk are replenished as fast as they are exhausted.Dinner at twelve is a repetition of the breakfast, but with the coffeeomitted and a gigantic pudding added. Tea at six is a repetition ofbreakfast. "Eat whenever you are hungry, you can always get milk andbread in the kitchen," Evans says—"eat as much as you can, it'll doyou good"—and we all eat like hunters. There is no change of food.The steer which was being killed on my arrival is now being eatenthrough from head to tail, the meat being hacked off quitepromiscuously, without any regard to joints. In this dry, rarefiedair, the outside of the flesh blackens and hardens, and though theweather may be hot, the carcass keeps sweet for two or three months.The bread is super excellent, but the poor wives seem to be making andbaking it all day.

The regular household living and eating together at this time consistsof a very intelligent and high-minded American couple, Mr. and Mrs.Dewy, people whose character, culture, and society I should valueanywhere; a young Englishman, brother of a celebrated African traveler,who, because he rides on an English saddle, and clings to some otherinsular peculiarities, is called "The Earl"; a miner prospecting forsilver; a young man, the type of intelligent, practical "YoungAmerica," whose health showed consumptive tendencies when he was inbusiness, and who is living a hunter's life here; a grown-up niece ofEvans; and a melancholy-looking hired man. A mile off there is anindustrious married settler, and four miles off, in the gulch leadingto the park, "Mountain Jim," otherwise Mr. Nugent, is posted. Hisbusiness as a trapper takes him daily up to the beaver dams in BlackCanyon to look after his traps, and he generally spends some time in orabout our cabin, not, I can see, to Evans's satisfaction. For, intruth, this blue hollow, lying solitary at the foot of Long's Peak, isa miniature world of great interest, in which love, jealousy, hatred,envy, pride, unselfishness, greed, selfishness, and self-sacrifice canbe studied hourly, and there is always the unpleasantly exciting riskof an open quarrel with the neighboring desperado, whose "I'll shootyou!" has more than once been heard in the cabin.

The party, however, has often been increased by "campers," either elkhunters or "prospectors" for silver or locations, who feed with us andjoin us in the evening. They get little help from Evans, either as toelk or locations, and go away disgusted and unsuccessful. TwoEnglishmen of refinement and culture camped out here prospecting a fewweeks ago, and then, contrary to advice, crossed the mountains intoNorth Park, where gold is said to abound, and it is believed that theyhave fallen victims to the bloodthirsty Indians of the region. Ofcourse, we never get letters or newspapers unless some one rides toLongmount for them. Two or three novels and a copy of Our New West areour literature. Our latest newspaper is seventeen days old. Somehowthe park seems to become the natural limit of our interests so far asthey appear in conversation at table. The last grand aurora, theprospect of a snow-storm, track and sign of elk and grizzly, rumors ofa bighorn herd near the lake, the canyons in which the Texan cattlewere last seen, the merits of different rifles, the progress of twoobvious love affairs, the probability of some one coming up from thePlains with letters, "Mountain Jim's" latest mood or escapade, and themerits of his dog "Ring" as compared with those of Evans's dog "Plunk,"are among the topics which are never abandoned as exhausted.

On Sunday work is nominally laid aside, but most of the men go outhunting or fishing till the evening, when we have the harmonium andmuch sacred music and singing in parts. To be alone in the park fromthe afternoon till the last glory of the afterglow has faded, with nobooks but a Bible and Prayer-book, is truly delightful. No worthiertemple for a "Te Deum" or "Gloria in Excelsis" could be found than this"temple not made with hands," in which one may worship without beingdistracted by the sight of bonnets of endless form, and curiouslyintricate "back hair," and countless oddities of changing fashion.

I shall not soon forget my first night here.

Somewhat dazed by the rarefied air, entranced by the glorious beauty,slightly puzzled by the motley company, whose faces loomed not alwaysquite distinctly through the cloud of smoke produced by eleven pipes, Iwent to my solitary cabin at nine, attended by Evans. It was verydark, and it seemed a long way off. Something howled—Evans said itwas a wolf—and owls apparently innumerable hooted incessantly. Thepole-star, exactly opposite my cabin door, burned like a lamp. Thefrost was sharp. Evans opened the door, lighted a candle, and left me,and I was soon in my hay bed. I was frightened—that is, afraid ofbeing frightened, it was so eerie—but sleep soon got the better of myfears. I was awoke by a heavy breathing, a noise something like sawingunder the floor, and a pushing and upheaving, all very loud. My candlewas all burned, and, in truth, I dared not stir. The noise went on foran hour fully, when, just as I thought the floor had been madesufficiently thin for all purposes of ingress, the sounds abruptlyceased, and I fell asleep again. My hair was not, as it ought to havebeen, white in the morning!

I was dressed by seven, our breakfast hour, and when I reached thegreat cabin and told my story, Evans laughed hilariously, and Edwardscontorted his face dismally. They told me that there was a skunk'slair under my cabin, and that they dare not make any attempt todislodge him for fear of rendering the cabin untenable. They havetried to trap him since, but without success, and each night the noisyperformance is repeated. I think he is sharpening his claws on theunder side of my floor, as the grizzlies sharpen theirs upon the trees.The odor with which this creature, truly named Mephitis, can overpowerits assailants is truly AWFUL. We were driven out of the cabin forsome hours merely by the passage of one across the corral. The bravestman is a coward in its neighborhood. Dogs rub their noses on theground till they bleed when they have touched the fluid, and even dieof the vomiting produced by the effluvia. The odor can be smelt a mileoff. If clothes are touched by the fluid they must be destroyed. Atpresent its fur is very valuable. Several have been killed since Icame. A shot well aimed at the spine secures one safely, and anexperienced dog can kill one by leaping upon it suddenly without beingexposed to danger. It is a beautiful beast, about the size and lengthof a fox, with long thick black or dark-brown fur, and two whitestreaks from the head to the long bushy tail. The claws of itsfore-feet are long and polished. Yesterday one was seen rushing fromthe dairy and was shot. "Plunk," the big dog, touched it and has to bedriven into exile. The body was valiantly removed by a man with a longfork, and carried to a running stream, but we are nearly choked withthe odor from the spot where it fell. I hope that my skunk will enjoya quiet spirit so long as we are near neighbors.

October 3.

This is surely one of the most entrancing spots on earth. Oh, that Icould paint with pen or brush! From my bed I look on Mirror Lake, andwith the very earliest dawn, when objects are not discernible, it liesthere absolutely still, a purplish lead color. Then suddenly into itsmirror flash inverted peaks, at first a dawn darker all round. This isa new sight, each morning new. Then the peaks fade, and when morningis no longer "spread upon the mountains," the pines are mirrored in mylake almost as solid objects, and the glory steals downwards, and a redflush warms the clear atmosphere of the park, and the hoar-frostsparkles and the crested blue-jays step forth daintily on the jewelledgrass. The majesty and beauty grow on me daily. As I crossed from mycabin just now, and the long mountain shadows lay on the grass, andform and color gained new meanings, I was almost false to Hawaii; Icouldn't go on writing for the glory of the sunset, but went out andsat on a rock to see the deepening blue in the dark canyons, and thepeaks becoming rose color one by one, then fading into suddenghastliness, the awe-inspiring heights of Long's Peak fading last.Then came the glories of the afterglow, when the orange and lemon ofthe east faded into gray, and then gradually the gray for some distanceabove the horizon brightened into a cold blue, and above the blue intoa broad band of rich, warm red, with an upper band of rose color; aboveit hung a big cold moon. This is the "daily miracle" of evening, asthe blazing peaks in the darkness of Mirror Lake are the miracle ofmorning. Perhaps this scenery is not lovable, but, as if it were astrong stormy character, it has an intense fascination.

The routine of my day is breakfast at seven, then I go back and "do" mycabin and draw water from the lake, read a little, loaf a little,return to the big cabin and sweep it alternately with Mrs. Dewy, afterwhich she reads aloud till dinner at twelve. Then I ride with Mr.Dewy, or by myself, or with Mrs. Dewy, who is learning to ride cavalierfashion in order to accompany her invalid husband, or go after cattletill supper at six. After that we all sit in the living room, and Isettle down to write to you, or mend my clothes, which are dropping topieces. Some sit round the table playing at eucre, the strange huntersand prospectors lie on the floor smoking, and rifles are cleaned,bullets cast, fishing flies made, fishing tackle repaired, boots arewaterproofed, part-songs are sung, and about half-past eight I crossthe crisp grass to my cabin, always expecting to find something in it.We all wash our own clothes, and as my stock is so small, some part ofevery day has to be spent at the wash tub. Politeness and proprietyalways prevail in our mixed company, and though various grades ofsociety are represented, true democratic equality prevails, not itscounterfeit, and there is neither forwardness on one side norcondescension on the other.

Evans left for Denver ten days ago, taking his wife and family to thePlains for the winter, and the mirth of our party departed with him.Edwards is somber, except when he lies on the floor in the evening, andtells stories of his march through Georgia with Sherman. I gave Evansa 100-dollar note to change, and asked him to buy me a horse for mytour, and for three days we have expected him. The mail depends onhim. I have had no letters from you for five weeks, and can hardlycurb my impatience. I ride or walk three or four miles out on theLongmount trail two or three times a day to look for him. Others, fordifferent reasons, are nearly equally anxious. After dark we start atevery sound, and every time the dogs bark all the able-bodied of usturn out en masse. "Wait for the wagon" has become a nearly maddeningjoke.

October 9.

The letter and newspaper fever has seized on every one. We have sentat last to Longmount. The evening I rode out on the Longmount trailtowards dusk, escorted by "Mountain Jim," and in the distance we saw awagon with four horses and a saddle horse behind, and the driver waveda handkerchief, the concerted signal if I were the possessor of ahorse. We turned back, galloping down the long hill as fast as twogood horses could carry us, and gave the joyful news. It was an hourbefore the wagon arrived, bringing not Evans but two "campers" ofsuspicious aspect, who have pitched their camp close to my cabin! Youcannot imagine what it is to be locked in by these mountain walls, andnot to know where your letters are lying. Later on, Mr. Buchan, one ofour usual inmates, returned from Denver with papers, letters for everyone but me, and much exciting news. The financial panic has spread outWest, gathering strength on its way. The Denver banks have allsuspended business. They refuse to cash their own checks, or to allowtheir customers to draw a dollar, and would not even give green-backsfor my English gold! Neither Mr. Buchan nor Evans could get a cent.Business is suspended, and everybody, however rich, is for the timebeing poor. The Indians have taken to the "war path," and are burningranches and killing cattle. There is a regular "scare" among thesettlers, and wagon loads of fugitives are arriving in ColoradoSprings. The Indians say, "The white man has killed the buffalo andleft them to rot on the plains. We will be revenged." Evans hadreached Longmount, and will be here tonight.

October 10.

"Wait for the wagon" still! We had a hurricane of wind and hail lastnight; it was eleven before I could go to my cabin, and I only reachedit with the help of two men. The moon was not up, and the sky overheadwas black with clouds, when suddenly Long's Peak, which had beeninvisible, gleamed above the dark mountains, all glistening withnew-fallen snow, on which the moon, as yet uprisen here, was shining.The evening before, after sunset, I saw another novel effect. My laketurned a brilliant orange in the twilight, and in its still mirror themountains were reflected a deep rich blue. It is a world of wonders.To-day we had a great storm with flurries of fine snow; and when theclouds rolled up at noon, the Snowy Range and all the higher mountainswere pure white. I have been hard at work all day to drown myanxieties, which are heightened by a rumor that Evans has gonebuffalo-hunting on the Platte!

This evening, quite unexpectedly, Evans arrived with a heavy mail in abox. I sorted it, but there was nothing for me and Evans said he wasafraid that he had left my letters, which were separate from theothers, behind at Denver, but he had written from Longmount for them.A few hours later they were found in a box of groceries!

All the hilarity of the house has returned with Evans, and he hasbrought a kindred spirit with him, a young man who plays and singssplendidly, has an inexhaustible repertoire, and produces sonatas,funeral marches, anthems, reels, strathspeys, and all else, out of hiswonderful memory. Never, surely was a chamber organ compelled to suchservice. A little cask of suspicious appearance was smuggled into thecabin from the wagon, and heightens the hilarity a little, I fear. Nochurlishness could resist Evans's unutterable jollity or the contagionof his hearty laugh. He claps people on the back, shouts at them, willdo anything for them, and makes a perpetual breeze. "My kingdom for ahorse!" He has not got one for me, and a shadow crossed his face whenI spoke of the subject. Eventually he asked for a private conference,when he told me, with some confusion, that he had found himself "veryhard up" in Denver, and had been obliged to appropriate my 100-dollarnote. He said he would give me, as interest for it up to November25th, a good horse, saddle, and bridle for my proposed journey of 600miles. I was somewhat dismayed, but there was no other course, as themoney was gone.

[16] I tried a horse, mended my clothes, reduced my pack to a weight oftwelve pounds, and was all ready for an early start, when beforedaylight I was wakened by Evans's cheery voice at my door. "I say,Miss B., we've got to drive wild cattle to-day; I wish you'd lend ahand, there's not enough of us; I'll give you a good horse; one daywon't make much difference." So we've been driving cattle all day,riding about twenty miles, and fording the Big Thompson about as manytimes. Evans flatters me by saying that I am "as much use as anotherman"; more than one of our party, I hope, who always avoided the "ugly"cows.

[16] In justice to Evans, I must mention here that every cent of themoney was ultimately paid, that the horse was perfection, and that thearrangement turned out a most advantageous one for me.

October 12.

I am still here, helping in the kitchen, driving cattle, and ridingfour or five times a day. Evans detains me each morning by saying,"Here's lots of horses for you to try," and after trying five or six aday, I do not find one to my liking. Today, as I was cantering a tallwell-bred one round the lake, he threw the bridle off by a toss of hishead, leaving me with the reins in my hands; one bucked, and two havetender feet, and tumbled down. Such are some of our little varieties.Still I hope to get off on my tour in a day or two, so at least as tobe able to compare Estes Park with some of the better-known parts ofColorado.

You would be amused if you could see our cabin just now. There arenine men in the room and three women. For want of seats most of themen are lying on the floor; all are smoking, and the blithe youngFrench Canadian who plays so beautifully, and catches about fiftyspeckled trout for each meal, is playing the harmonium with a pipe inhis mouth. Three men who have camped in Black Canyon for a week arelying like dogs on the floor. They are all over six feet high,immovably solemn, neither smiling at the general hilarity, nor at theabsurd changes which are being rung on the harmonium. They may bedescribed as clothed only in boots, for their clothes are torn to rags.They stare vacantly. They have neither seen a woman nor slept under aroof for six months. Negro songs are being sung, and before that"Yankee Doodle" was played immediately after "Rule Britannia," and itmade every one but the strangers laugh, it sounded so foolish and mean.The colder weather is bringing the beasts down from the heights. Iheard both wolves and the mountain lion as I crossed to my cabin lastnight.

I. L. B.

Letter IX

"Please Ma'ams"—A desperado—A cattle hunt—The muster—A mad cow—Asnowstorm—Snowed up—Birdie—The Plains—A prairie schooner—Denver—Afind—Plum Creek—"Being agreeable"—Snowbound—The grey mare.

ESTES PARK, COLORADO.

This afternoon, as I was reading in my cabin, little Sam Edwards ranin, saying, "Mountain Jim wants to speak to you." This brought to mymind images of infinite worry, gauche servants, "please Ma'am,"contretemps, and the habit growing out of our elaborate and uselesslyconventional life of magnifying the importance of similar trifles.Then "things" came up, with the tyranny they exercise. I REALLY neednothing more than this log cabin offers. But elsewhere one must have ahouse and servants, and burdens and worries—not that one may behospitable and comfortable, but for the "thick clay" in the shape of"things" which one has accumulated. My log house takes me about fiveminutes to "do," and you could eat off the floor, and it needs no lock,as it contains nothing worth stealing.

But "Mountain Jim" was waiting while I made these reflections to ask usto take a ride; and he, Mr. and Mrs. Dewy, and I, had a delightfulstroll through colored foliage, and then, when they were fatigued, Ichanged my horse for his beautiful mare, and we galloped and raced inthe beautiful twilight, in the intoxicating frosty air. Mrs. Dewywishes you could have seen us as we galloped down the pass, thefearful-looking ruffian on my heavy wagon horse, and I on his barewooden saddle, from which beaver, mink, and marten tails, and pieces ofskin, were hanging raggedly, with one spur, and feet not in thestirrups, the mare looking so aristocratic and I so beggarly! Mr.Nugent is what is called "splendid company." With a sort of breezymountain recklessness in everything, he passes remarkably acutejudgments on men and events; on women also. He has pathos, poetry, andhumor, an intense love of nature, strong vanity in certain directions,an obvious desire to act and speak in character, and sustain hisreputation as a desperado, a considerable acquaintance with literature,a wonderful verbal memory, opinions on every person and subject, achivalrous respect for women in his manner, which makes it all the moreamusing when he suddenly turns round upon one with some gracefulraillery, a great power of fascination, and a singular love ofchildren. The children of this house run to him, and when he sits downthey climb on his broad shoulders and play with his curls. They say inthe house that "no one who has been here thinks any one worth speakingto after Jim," but I think that this is probably an opinion which timewould alter. Somehow, he is kept always before the public of Colorado,for one can hardly take up a newspaper without finding a paragraphabout him, a contribution by him, or a fragment of his biography.Ruffian as he looks, the first word he speaks—to a lady, atleast—places him on a level with educated gentlemen, and hisconversation is brilliant, and full of the light and fitfulness ofgenius. Yet, on the whole, he is a most painful spectacle. Hismagnificent head shows so plainly the better possibilities which mighthave been his. His life, in spite of a certain dazzle which belongs toit, is a ruined and wasted one, and one asks what of good can thefuture have in store for one who has for so long chosen evil?[17]

[17] September of the next year answered the question by laying himdown in a dishonored grave, with a rifle bullet in his brain.

Shall I ever get away? We were to have had a grand cattle huntyesterday, beginning at 6:30, but the horses were all lost. Often outof fifty horses all that are worth anything are marauding, and a day islost in hunting for them in the canyons. However, before daylight thismorning Evans called through my door, "Miss Bird, I say we've got todrive cattle fifteen miles, I wish you'd lend a hand; there's notenough of us; I'll give you a good horse."

The scene of the drive is at a height of 7,500 feet, watered by tworapid rivers. On all sides mountains rise to an altitude of from11,000 to 15,000 feet, their skirts shaggy with pitch-pine forests, andscarred by deep canyons, wooded and boulder strewn, opening upon themountain pasture previously mentioned. Two thousand head of half-wildTexan cattle are scattered in herds throughout the canyons, living onmore or less suspicious terms with grizzly and brown bears, mountainlions, elk, mountain sheep, spotted deer, wolves, lynxes, wild cats,beavers, minks, skunks, chipmunks, eagles, rattlesnakes, and all theother two-legged, four-legged, vertebrate, and invertebrate inhabitantsof this lonely and romantic region. On the whole, they show a tendencyrather to the habits of wild than of domestic cattle. They march towater in Indian file, with the bulls leading, and when threatened, takestrategic advantage of ridgy ground, slinking warily along in thehollows, the bulls acting as sentinels, and bringing up the rear incase of an attack from dogs. Cows have to be regularly broken in formilking, being as wild as buffaloes in their unbroken state; but, owingto the comparative dryness of the grasses, and the system of allowingthe calf to have the milk during the daytime, a dairy of 200 cows doesnot produce as much butter as a Devonshire dairy of fifty. Some"necessary" cruelty is involved in the stockman's business, howeverhumane he may be. The system is one of terrorism, and from the timethat the calf is bullied into the branding pen, and the hot iron burnsinto his shrinking flesh, to the day when the fatted ox is driven downfrom his boundless pastures to be slaughtered in Chicago, "the fear anddread of man" are upon him.

The herds are apt to penetrate the savage canyons which come down fromthe Snowy Range, when they incur a risk of being snowed up and starved,and it is necessary now and then to hunt them out and drive them downto the "park." On this occasion, the whole were driven down for amuster, and for the purpose of branding the calves.

After a 6:30 breakfast this morning, we started, the party beingcomposed of my host, a hunter from the Snowy Range, two stockmen fromthe Plains, one of whom rode a violent buck-jumper, and was said by hiscomrade to be the "best rider in North Americay," and myself. We wereall mounted on Mexican saddles, rode, as the custom is, with lightsnaffle bridles, leather guards over our feet, and broad woodenstirrups, and each carried his lunch in a pouch slung on the lassoinghorn of his saddle. Four big, badly-trained dogs accompanied us. Itwas a ride of nearly thirty miles, and of many hours, one of the mostsplendid I ever took. We never got off our horses except to tightenthe girths, we ate our lunch with our bridles knotted over saddlehorns, started over the level at full gallops, leapt over trunks oftrees, dashed madly down hillsides rugged with rocks or strewn withgreat stones, forded deep, rapid streams, saw lovely lakes and views ofsurpassing magnificence, startled a herd of elk with uncouth heads andin the chase, which for some time was unsuccessful, rode to the verybase of Long's Peak, over 14,000 feet high, where the bright waters ofone of the affluents of the Platte burst from the eternal snows througha canyon of indescribable majesty. The sun was hot, but at a height ofover 8,000 feet the air was crisp and frosty, and the enjoyment ofriding a good horse under such exhilarating circumstances was extreme.In one wild part of the ride we had to come down a steep hill, thicklywooded with pitch pines, to leap over the fallen timber, and steerbetween the dead and living trees to avoid being "snagged," or bringingdown a heavy dead branch by an unwary touch.

Emerging from this, we caught sight of a thousand Texan cattle feedingin a valley below. The leaders scented us, and, taking fright, beganto move off in the direction of the open "park," while we were about amile from and above them. "Head them off, boys!" our leader shouted;"all aboard; hark away!" and with something of the "High, tally-ho inthe morning!" away we all went at a hard gallop down-hill. I could nothold my excited animal; down-hill, up-hill, leaping over rocks andtimber, faster every moment the pace grew, and still the leadershouted, "Go it, boys!" and the horses dashed on at racing speed,passing and repassing each other, till my small but beautiful bay waskeeping pace with the immense strides of the great buck-jumper riddenby "the finest rider in North Americay," and I was dizzied andbreathless by the pace at which we were going. A shorter time than ittakes to tell it brought us close to and abreast of the surge ofcattle. The bovine waves were a grand sight: huge bulls, shaped likebuffaloes, bellowed and roared, and with great oxen and cows withyearling calves, galloped like racers, and we galloped alongside ofthem, and shortly headed them and in no time were placed as sentinelsacross the mouth of the valley. It seemed like infantry awaiting theshock of cavalry as we stood as still as our excited horses wouldallow. I almost quailed as the surge came on, but when it got close tous my comrades hooted fearfully, and we dashed forward with the dogs,and, with bellowing, roaring, and thunder of hoofs, the wave receded asit came. I rode up to our leader, who received me with much laughter.He said I was "a good cattleman," and that he had forgotten that a ladywas of the party till he saw me "come leaping over the timber, anddriving with the others."

It was not for two hours after this that the real business of drivingbegan, and I was obliged to change my thoroughbred for a well-trainedcattle horse—a bronco, which could double like a hare, and go over anyground. I had not expected to work like a vachero, but so it was, andmy Hawaiian experience was very useful. We hunted the various canyonsand known "camps," driving the herds out of them; and, until we hadsecured 850 head in the corral some hours afterwards, we scarcely saweach other to speak to. Our first difficulty was with a herd which gotinto some swampy ground, when a cow, which afterwards gave me aninfinity of trouble, remained at bay for nearly an hour, tossing thedog three times, and resisting all efforts to dislodge her. She had alarge yearling calf with her, and Evans told me that the attachment ofa cow to her first calf is sometimes so great that she will kill hersecond that the first may have the milk. I got a herd of over ahundred out of a canyon by myself, and drove them down to the riverwith the aid of one badly-broken dog, which gave me more trouble thanthe cattle. The getting over was most troublesome; a few took to thewater readily and went across, but others smelt it, and then, doublingback, ran in various directions; while some attacked the dog as he wasswimming, and others, after crossing, headed back in search of somefavorite companions which had been left behind, and one speciallyvicious cow attacked my horse over and over again. It took an hour anda half of time and much patience to gather them all on the other side.

It was getting late in the day, and a snowstorm was impending, before Iwas joined by the other drivers and herds, and as the former haddiminished to three, with only three dogs, it was very difficult tokeep the cattle together. You drive them as gently as possible, so asnot to frighten or excite them,[18] riding first on one side, then onthe other, to guide them; and if they deliberately go in a wrongdirection, you gallop in front and head them off. The great excitementis when one breaks away from the herd and gallops madly up anddown-hill, and you gallop after him anywhere, over and among rocks andtrees, doubling when he doubles, and heading him till you get him backagain. The bulls were quite easily managed, but the cows with calves,old or young, were most troublesome. By accident I rode between onecow and her calf in a narrow place, and the cow rushed at me and wasjust getting her big horns under the horse, when he reared, and spundexterously aside. This kind of thing happened continually. There wasone very handsome red cow which became quite mad. She had a calf withher nearly her own size, and thought every one its enemy, and thoughits horns were well developed, and it was quite able to take care ofitself, she insisted on protecting it from all fancied dangers. One ofthe dogs, a young, foolish thing, seeing that the cow was excited, tooka foolish pleasure in barking at her, and she was eventually quiteinfuriated. She turned to bay forty times at least; tore up the groundwith her horns, tossed and killed the calves of two other cows, andfinally became so dangerous to the rest of the herd that, just as thedrive was ending, Evans drew his revolver and shot her, and the calffor which she had fought so blindly lamented her piteously. She rushedat me several times mad with rage, but these trained cattle horses keepperfectly cool, and, nearly without will on my part, mine jumped asideat the right moment, and foiled the assailant. Just at dusk we reachedthe corral—an acre of grass enclosed by stout post-and-rail fencesseven feet high—and by much patience and some subtlety lodged thewhole herd within its shelter, without a blow, a shout, or even a crackof a whip, wild as the cattle were. It was fearfully cold. Wegalloped the last mile and a half in four and a half minutes, reachedthe cabin just as the snow began to fall, and found strong, hot teaready.

[18] In several visits to America I have observed that the Americansare far in advance of us and our colonial kinsmen in their treatment ofhorses and other animals. This was very apparent with regard to thisTexan herd. There were no stock whips, no needless worrying of theanimals in the excitement of sport. Any dog seizing a bullock by histail or heels would have been called off and punished, and quietnessand gentleness were the rule. The horses were ridden without whips,and with spurs so blunt that they could not hurt even a human skin, andwere ruled by the voice and a slight pressure on the light snafflebridle. This is the usual plan, even where, as in Colorado, the horsesare bronchos, and inherit ineradicable vice. I never yet saw a horseBULLIED into submission in the United States.

October 18.

Snow-bound for three days! I could not write yesterday, it was soawful. People gave up all occupation, and talked of nothing but thestorm. The hunters all kept by the great fire in the living room, onlygoing out to bring in logs and clear the snow from the door andwindows. I never spent a more fearful night than two nights ago, alonein my cabin in the storm, with the roof lifting, the mud cracking andcoming off, and the fine snow hissing through the chinks between thelogs, while splittings and breaking of dead branches, wind wrung andsnow laden, went on incessantly, with screechings, howlings, thunderand lightning, and many unfamiliar sounds besides. After snowingfiercely all day, another foot of it fell in the early night, and,after drifting against my door, blocked me effectually in. Aboutmidnight the mercury fell to zero, and soon after a gale rose, whichlasted for ten hours. My window frame is swelled, and shuts,apparently, hermetically; and my bed is six feet from it. I had goneto sleep with six blankets on, and a heavy sheet over my face. Betweentwo and three I was awoke by the cabin being shifted from underneath bythe wind, and the sheet was frozen to my lips. I put out my hands, andthe bed was thickly covered with fine snow. Getting up to investigatematters, I found the floor some inches deep in parts in fine snow, anda gust of fine, needle-like snow stung my face. The bucket of waterwas solid ice. I lay in bed freezing till sunrise, when some of themen came to see if I "was alive," and to dig me out. They brought acan of hot water, which turned to ice before I could use it. I dressedstanding in snow, and my brushes, boots, and etceteras were coveredwith snow. When I ran to the house, not a mountain or anything elsecould be seen, and the snow on one side was drifted higher than theroof. The air, as high as one could see, was one white, stinging smokeof snowdrift—a terrific sight. In the living room, the snow wasdriving through the chinks, and Mrs. Dewy was shoveling it from thefloor. Mr. D.'s beard was hoary with frost in a room with a fire allnight. Evans was lying ill, with his bed covered with snow. Returningfrom my cabin after breakfast, loaded with occupations for the day, Iwas lifted off my feet, and deposited in a drift, and all my things,writing book and letter included, were carried in different directions.Some, including a valuable photograph, were irrecoverable. The writingbook was found, some hours afterwards, under three feet of snow.

There are tracks of bears and deer close to the house, but no one canhunt in this gale, and the drift is blinding. We have been slightlyovercrowded in our one room. Chess, music, and whist have beenresorted to. One hunter, for very ennui, has devoted himself tokeeping my ink from freezing. We all sat in great cloaks and coats,and kept up an enormous fire, with the pitch running out of the logs.The isolation is extreme, for we are literally snowed up, and the othersettler in the Park and "Mountain Jim" are both at Denver. Late in theevening the storm ceased. In some places the ground is bare of snow,while in others all irregularities are leveled, and the drifts areforty feet deep. Nature is grand under this new aspect. The cold isawful; the high wind with the mercury at zero would skin any partexposed to it.

October 19.

Evans offers me six dollars a week if I will stay into the winter anddo the cooking after Mrs. Edwards leaves! I think I should likeplaying at being a "hired girl" if it were not for the bread-making!But it would suit me better to ride after cattle. The men don't like"baching," as it is called in the wilds—i.e. "doing for themselves."They washed and ironed their clothes yesterday, and there was anincongruity about the last performance. I really think (though for thefifteenth time) that I shall leave to-morrow. The cold has moderated,the sky is bluer than ever, the snow is evaporating, and a hunter whohas joined us to-day says that there are no drifts on the trail whichone cannot get through.

LONGMOUNT, COLORADO, October 20.

"The Island Valley of Avillon" is left, but how shall I finally tearmyself from its freedom and enchantments? I see Long's snowy peakrising into the night sky, and know and long after the magnificence ofthe blue hollow at its base. We were to have left at 8 but the horseswere lost, so it was 9:30 before we started, the WE being the musicalyoung French Canadian and myself. I have a bay Indian pony, "Birdie,"a little beauty, with legs of iron, fast, enduring, gentle, and wise;and with luggage for some weeks, including a black silk dress, behindmy saddle, I am tolerably independent. It was a most glorious ride.We passed through the gates of rock, through gorges where the unsunnedsnow lay deep under the lemon-colored aspens; caught glimpses offar-off, snow-clad giants rising into a sky of deep sad blue; lunchedabove the Foot Hills at a cabin where two brothers and a "hired man"were "keeping bach," where everything was so trim, clean, andornamental that one did not miss a woman; crossed a deep backwater on anarrow beaver dam, because the log bridge was broken down, and emergedfrom the brilliantly-colored canyon of the St. Vrain just at dusk uponthe featureless prairies, when we had some trouble in finding Longmountin the dark. A hospitable welcome awaited me at this inn, and anEnglish friend came in and spent the evening with me.

GREAT PLATTE CANYON, October 23.

My letters on this tour will, I fear, be very dull, for after ridingall day, looking after my pony, getting supper, hearing about variousroutes, and the pastoral, agricultural, mining, and hunting gossip ofthe neighborhood, I am so sleepy and wholesomely tired that I canhardly write. I left Longmount pretty early on Tuesday morning, theday being sad, with the blink of an impending snow-storm in the air.The evening before I was introduced to a man who had been a colonel inthe rebel army, who made a most unfavorable impression upon me, and itwas a great annoyance to me when he presented himself on horse-back toguide me "over the most intricate part of the journey." Solitude isinfinitely preferable to uncongeniality, and is bliss when comparedwith repulsiveness, so I was thoroughly glad when I got rid of myescort and set out upon the prairie alone. It is a dreary ride ofthirty miles over the low brown plains to Denver, very little settled,and with trails going in all directions. My sailing orders were "steersouth, and keep to the best beaten track," and it seemed like embarkingon the ocean without a compass. The rolling brown waves on which yousee a horse a mile and a half off impress one strangely, and at noonthe sky darkened up for another storm, the mountains swept down inblackness to the Plains, and the higher peaks took on a ghastlygrimness horrid to behold. It was first very cold, then very hot, andfinally settled down to a fierce east-windy cold, difficult to endure.It was free and breezy, however, and my horse was companionable.Sometimes herds of cattle were browsing on the sun-cured grass, thenherds of horses. Occasionally I met a horseman with a rifle lyingacross his saddle, or a wagon of the ordinary sort, but oftener I saw awagon with a white tilt, of the kind known as a "Prairie Schooner,"laboring across the grass, or a train of them, accompanied by herds,mules, and horsemen, bearing emigrants and their household goods indreary exodus from the Western States to the much-vaunted prairies ofColorado.

The host and hostess of one of these wagons invited me to join theirmid-day meal, I providing tea (which they had not tasted for fourweeks) and they hominy. They had been three months on the journey fromIllinois, and their oxen were so lean and weak that they expected to beanother month in reaching Wet Mountain Valley. They had buried a childen route, had lost several oxen, and were rather out of heart. Owingto their long isolation and the monotony of the march they had lostcount of events, and seemed like people of another planet. They wantedme to join them, but their rate of travel was too slow, so we partedwith mutual expressions of good will, and as their white tilt went"hull down" in the distance on the lonely prairie sea, I felt sadderthan I often feel on taking leave of old acquaintances. That nightthey must have been nearly frozen, camping out in the deep snow in thefierce wind. I met afterwards 2,000 lean Texan cattle, herded by threewild-looking men on horseback, followed by two wagons containing women,children, and rifles. They had traveled 1,000 miles. Then I saw twoprairie wolves, like jackals, with gray fur, cowardly creatures, whichfled from me with long leaps.

The windy cold became intense, and for the next eleven miles I rode arace with the coming storm. At the top of every prairie roll Iexpected to see Denver, but it was not till nearly five that from aconsiderable height I looked down upon the great "City of the Plains,"the metropolis of the Territories. There the great braggart city layspread out, brown and treeless, upon the brown and treeless plain,which seemed to nourish nothing but wormwood and the Spanish bayonet.The shallow Platte, shriveled into a narrow stream with a shingly bedsix times too large for it, and fringed by shriveled cotton-wood, woundalong by Denver, and two miles up its course I saw a great sandstorm,which in a few minutes covered the city, blotting it out with a densebrown cloud. Then with gusts of wind the snowstorm began, and I had totrust entirely to Birdie's sagacity for finding Evans's shanty. Shehad been there once before only, but carried me direct to it over roughground and trenches. Gleefully Mrs. Evans and the children ran out towelcome the pet pony, and I was received most hospitably, and made warmand comfortable, though the house consists only of a kitchen and twobed closets. My budget of news from "the park" had to be brought outconstantly, and I wondered how much I had to tell. It was past elevenwhen we breakfasted the next morning. It was cloudless with an intensefrost, and six inches of snow on the ground, and everybody thought ittoo cold to get up and light the fire. I had intended to leave Birdieat Denver, but Governor Hunt and Mr. Byers of the Rocky Mountain Newsboth advised me to travel on horseback rather than by train and stagetelling me that I should be quite safe, and Governor Hunt drew out aroute for me and gave me a circular letter to the settlers along it.

Denver is no longer the Denver of Hepworth Dixon. A shooting affray inthe street is as rare as in Liverpool, and one no longer sees mendangling to the lamp-posts when one looks out in the morning! It is abusy place, the entrepot and distributing point for an immensedistrict, with good shops, some factories, fair hotels, and the usualdeformities and refinements of civilization. Peltry shops abound, andsportsman, hunter, miner, teamster, emigrant, can be completely riggedout at fifty different stores. At Denver, people who come from theEast to try the "camp cure" now so fashionable, get their outfit ofwagon, driver, horses, tent, bedding, and stove, and start for themountains. Asthmatic people are there in such numbers as to warrantthe holding of an "asthmatic convention" of patients cured andbenefited. Numbers of invalids who cannot bear the rough life of themountains fill its hotels and boarding-houses, and others who have beenpartially restored by a summer of camping out, go into the city in thewinter to complete the cure. It stands at a height of 5,000 feet, onan enormous plain, and has a most glorious view of the Rocky Range. Ishould hate even to spend a week there. The sight of those glories sonear and yet out of reach would make me nearly crazy. Denver is atpresent the terminus of the Kansas Pacific Railroad. It has a lineconnecting it with the Union Pacific Railroad at Cheyenne, and by meansof the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, open for about 200 miles, it isexpecting to reach into Mexico. It has also had the enterprise, bymeans of another narrow-gauge railroad, to push its way right up intothe mining districts near Gray's Peak. The number of "saloons" in thestreets impresses one, and everywhere one meets the characteristicloafers of a frontier town, who find it hard even for a few days orhours to submit to the restraints of civilization, as hard as I did toride sidewise to Governor Hunt's office. To Denver men go to spend thesavings of months of hard work in the maddest dissipation, and theresuch characters as "Comanche Bill," "Buffalo Bill," "Wild Bill," and"Mountain Jim," go on the spree, and find the kind of notoriety theyseek.

A large number of Indians added to the harlequin appearance of theDenver streets the day I was there. They belonged to the Ute tribe,through which I had to pass, and Governor Hunt introduced me to afine-looking young chief, very well dressed in beaded hide, and bespokehis courtesy for me if I needed it. The Indian stores and fur storesand fur depots interested me most. The crowds in the streets, perhapsowing to the snow on the ground, were almost solely masculine. I onlysaw five women the whole day. There were men in every rig: hunters andtrappers in buckskin clothing; men of the Plains with belts andrevolvers, in great blue cloaks, relics of the war; teamsters inleathern suits; horsemen in fur coats and caps and buffalo-hide bootswith the hair outside, and camping blankets behind their huge Mexicansaddles; Broadway dandies in light kid gloves; rich English sportingtourists, clean, comely, and supercilious looking; and hundreds ofIndians on their small ponies, the men wearing buckskin suits sewn withbeads, and red blankets, with faces painted vermilion and hair hanginglank and straight, and squaws much bundled up, riding astride with fursover their saddles.

Town tired and confused me, and in spite of Mrs. Evans's kindhospitality, I was glad when a man brought Birdie at nine yesterdaymorning. He said she was a little demon, she had done nothing butbuck, and had bucked him off on the bridge! I found that he had put acurb on her, and whenever she dislikes anything she resents it bybucking. I rode sidewise till I was well through the town, long enoughto produce a severe pain in my spine, which was not relieved for sometime even after I had changed my position. It was a lovely Indiansummer day, so warm that the snow on the ground looked an incongruity.I rode over the Plains for some time, then gradually reached therolling country along the base of the mountains, and a stream withcottonwoods along it, and settlers' houses about every halfmile. Ipassed and met wagons frequently, and picked up a muff containing apurse with 500 dollars in it, which I afterwards had the great pleasureof restoring to the owner. Several times I crossed the narrow track ofthe quaint little Rio Grande Railroad, so that it was a very cheerfulride.

RANCH, PLUM CREEK, October 24.

You must understand that in Colorado travel, unless on the main roadand in the larger settlements, there are neither hotels nor taverns,and that it is the custom for the settlers to receive travelers,charging them at the usual hotel rate for accommodation. It is a verysatisfactory arrangement. However, at Ranch, my first halting place,the host was unwilling to receive people in this way, I afterwardsfound, or I certainly should not have presented my credentials at thedoor of a large frame house, with large barns and a generallyprosperous look. The host, who opened the door, looked repellent, buthis wife, a very agreeable, lady-like-looking woman, said they couldgive me a bed on a sofa. The house was the most pretentious I have yetseen, being papered and carpeted, and there were two "hired girls."There was a lady there from Laramie, who kindly offered to receive meinto her room, a very tall, elegant person, remarkable as being thefirst woman who had settled in the Rocky Mountains. She had beentrying the "camp cure" for three months, and was then on her way home.She had a wagon with beds, tent, tent floor, cooking-stove, and everycamp luxury, a light buggy, a man to manage everything, and a mostsuperior "hired girl." She was consumptive and frail in strength, but avery attractive person, and her stories of the perils and limitation ofher early life at Fort Laramie were very interesting. Still I"wearied," as I had arrived early in the afternoon, and could not outof politeness retire and write to you. At meals the three "hired men"and two "hired girls" eat with the family. I soon found that there wasa screw loose in the house, and was glad to leave early the nextmorning, although it was obvious that a storm was coming on.

I saw the toy car of the Rio Grande Railroad whirl past, all cushionedand warm, and rather wished I were in it, and not out among the snow onthe bleak hill side. I only got on four miles when the storm came onso badly that I got into a kitchen where eleven wretched travelers weretaking shelter, with the snow melting on them and dripping on thefloor. I had learned the art of "being agreeable" so well at theChalmers's, and practiced it so successfully during the two hours I wasthere, by paring potatoes and making scones, that when I left, thoughthe hosts kept "an accommodation house for travelers," they would takenothing for my entertainment, because they said I was such "goodcompany"! The storm moderated a little, and at one I saddled Birdie,and rode four more miles, crossing a frozen creek, the ice of whichbroke and let the pony through, to her great alarm. I cannot describemy feelings on this ride, produced by the utter loneliness, the silenceand dumbness of all things, the snow falling quietly without wind, theobliterated mountains, the darkness, the intense cold, and the unusualand appalling aspect of nature. All life was in a shroud, all work andtravel suspended. There was not a foot-mark or wheel-mark. There wasnothing to be afraid of; and though I can't exactly say that I enjoyedthe ride, yet there was the pleasant feeling of gaining health everyhour.

When the snow darkness began to deepen towards evening, the trackbecame quite illegible, and when I found myself at this romanticallysituated cabin, I was thankful to find that they could give me shelter.The scene was a solemn one, and reminded me of a description inWhittier's Snow-Bound. All the stock came round the cabin with muteappeals for shelter. Sheep dogs got in, and would not be kicked out.Men went out muffled up, and came back shivering and shaking the snowfrom their feet. The churn was put by the stove. Later on, a mostpleasant settler, on his way to Denver, came in his wagon having beensnow blocked two miles off, where he had been obliged to leave it andbring his horses on here. The "Grey Mare" had a stentorian voice,smoked a clay pipe which she passed to her children, raged at Englishpeople, derided the courtesy of English manners, and considered that"Please," "Thank you," and the like, were "all bosh" when life was soshort and busy. And still the snow fell softly, and the air and earthwere silent.

Letter X

A white world—Bad traveling—A millionaire's home—PleasantPark—Perry's Park—Stock-raising—A cattle king—The ArkansasDivide—Birdie's sagacity—Luxury—Monument Park—Deference toprejudice—A death scene—The Manitou—A loose shoe—The UtePass—Bergens Park—A settler's home—Hayden's Divide—Sharpcriticism—Speaking the truth.

COLORADO SPRINGS, October 28.

It is difficult to make this anything of a letter. I have been ridingfor a whole week, seeing wonders and greatly enjoying the singularadventurousness and novelty of my tour, but ten hours or more dailyspent in the saddle in this rarefied, intoxicating air, disposes one tosleep rather than to write in the evening, and is far from conducive tomental brilliancy. The observing faculties are developed, and thereflective lie dormant.

That night on which I last wrote was the coldest I have yet felt. Ipulled the rag carpet from the floor and covered myself with it, butcould not get warm. The sun rose gloriously on a shrouded earth.Barns, road, shrubs, fences, river, lake, all lay under the glitteringsnow. It was light and powdery, and sparkled like diamonds. Not abreath of wind stirred, there was not a sound. I had to wait till apassing horseman had broken the track, but soon after I set off intothe new, shining world. I soon lost the horseman's foot-marks, butkept on near the road by means of the innumerable foot-prints of birdsand ground squirrels, which all went in one direction. After ridingfor an hour I was obliged to get off and walk for another, for the snowballed in Birdie's feet to such an extent that she could hardly keep upeven without my weight on her, and my pick was not strong enough toremove it. Turning off the road to ask for a chisel, I came upon thecabin of the people whose muff I had picked up a few days before, andthey received me very warmly, gave me a tumbler of cream, and made somestrong coffee. They were "old Country folk," and I stayed too longwith them. After leaving them I rode twelve miles, but it was "badtraveling," from the balling of the snow and the difficulty of findingthe track. There was a fearful loneliness about it. The track wasuntrodden, and I saw neither man nor beast. The sky became denselyclouded, and the outlook was awful. The great Divide of the Arkansaswas in front, looming vaguely through a heavy snow cloud, and snowbegan to fall, not in powder, but in heavy flakes. Finding that therewould be risk in trying to ride till nightfall, in the early afternoonI left the road and went two miles into the hills by an untrodden path,where there were gates to open, and a rapid steep-sided creek to cross;and at the entrance to a most fantastic gorge I came upon an elegantframe house belonging to Mr. Perry, a millionaire, to whom I had anintroduction which I did not hesitate to present, as it was weather inwhich a traveler might almost ask for shelter without one.

Mr. Perry was away, but his daughter, a very bright-looking,elegantly-dressed girl, invited me to dine and remain. They had stewedvenison and various luxuries on the table, which was tasteful andrefined, and an adroit, colored table-maid waited, one of five attachedNegro servants who had been their slaves before the war. After dinner,though snow was slowly falling, a gentleman cousin took me a ride toshow me the beauties of Pleasant Park, which takes rank among thefinest scenery of Colorado, and in good weather is very easy of access.It did look very grand as we entered it by a narrow pass guarded by twobuttes, or isolated upright masses of rock, bright red, and about 300feet in height. The pines were very large, and the narrow canyonswhich came down on the park gloomily magnificent. It is remarkablealso from a quantity of "monumental" rocks, from 50 to 300 feet inheight, bright vermilion, green, buff, orange, and sometimes allcombined, their gay tinting a contrast to the disastrous-looking snowand the somber pines. Bear Canyon, a gorge of singular majesty, comesdown on the park, and we crossed the Bear Creek at the foot of this onthe ice, which gave way, and both our horses broke through into prettydeep and very cold water, and shortly afterwards Birdie put her footinto a prairie dog's hole which was concealed by the snow, and onrecovering herself fell three times on her nose. I thought of BishopWilberforce's fatal accident from a smaller stumble, and felt sure thathe would have kept his seat had he been mounted, as I was, on a Mexicansaddle. It was too threatening for a long ride, and on returning Ipassed into a region of vivacious descriptions of Egypt, Palestine,Asia Minor, Turkey, Russia, and other countries, in which Miss Perryhad traveled with her family for three years.

Perry's Park is one of the great cattle-raising ranches in Colorado.This, the youngest State in the Union, a Territory until quiterecently, has an area of about 68,000,000 acres, a great portion ofwhich, though rich in mineral wealth, is worthless either for stock orarable farming, and the other or eastern part is so dry that crops canonly be grown profitably where irrigation is possible. This region iswatered by the South Fork of the Platte and its affluents, and, thoughsubject to the grasshopper pest, it produces wheat of the finestquality, the yield varying according to the mode of cultivation fromeighteen to thirty bushels per acre. The necessity for irrigation,however, will always bar the way to an indefinite extension of the areaof arable farms. The prospects of cattle-raising seem at presentpractically unlimited. In 1876 Colorado had 390,728, valued at L2:13s.per head, about half of which were imported as young beasts from Texas.The climate is so fine and the pasturage so ample that shelter andhand-feeding are never resorted to except in the case of importedbreeding stock from the Eastern States, which sometimes in severewinters need to be fed in sheds for a short time. Mr. Perry devoteshimself mainly to the breeding of graded shorthorn bulls, which hesells when young for L6 per head.

The cattle run at large upon the prairies; each animal being branded,they need no herding, and are usually only mustered, counted, and theincrease branded in the summer. In the fall, when three or four yearsold, they are sold lean or in tolerable condition to dealers who takethem by rail to Chicago, or elsewhere, where the fattest lots areslaughtered for tinning or for consumption in the Eastern cities, whilethe leaner are sold to farmers for feeding up during the winter. Someof the wealthier stockmen take their best lots to Chicago themselves.The Colorado cattle are either pure Texan or Spanish, or crossesbetween the Texan and graded shorthorns. They are nearly all veryinferior animals, being bony and ragged. The herds mix on the vastplains at will; along the Arkansas valley 80,000 roam about with thefreedom of buffaloes, and of this number about 16,000 are exportedevery fall. Where cattle are killed for use in the mining districtstheir average price is three cents per lb. In the summer thousands ofyearlings are driven up from Texas, branded, and turned loose on theprairies, and are not molested again till they are sent east at threeor four years old. These pure Texans, the old Spanish breed, weighfrom 900 to 1,000 pounds, and the crossed Colorado cattle from 1,000 to1,200 pounds.

The "Cattle King" of the State is Mr. Iliff, of South Platte, who ownsnine ranches, with runs of 15,000 acres, and 35,000 cattle. He isimproving his stock; and, indeed, the opening of the dead-meat tradewith this country is giving a great impetus to the improvement of thebreed of cattle among all the larger and richer stock-owners. For thisenormous herd 40 men are employed in summer, about 12 in winter, and200 horses. In the rare case of a severe and protracted snowstorm thecattle get a little hay. Owners of 6,000, 8,000 and 10,000 head ofcattle are quite common in Colorado. Sheep are now raised in the Stateto the extent of half a million, and a chronic feud prevails betweenthe "sheep men" and the "cattle men." Sheep-raising is said to be avery profitable business, but its risks and losses are greater, owingto storms, while the outlay for labor, dipping materials, etc., isconsiderably larger, and owing to the comparative inability of sheep toscratch away the snow from the grass, hay has to be provided to meetthe emergency of very severe snow-storms. The flocks are made upmostly of pure and graded Mexicans; but though some flocks which havebeen graded carefully for some years show considerable merit, theaverage sheep is a leggy, ragged beast. Wether mutton, four and fiveyears old, is sold when there is any demand for it; but except atCharpiot's, in Denver, I never saw mutton on any table, public orprivate, and wool is the great source of profit, the old ewes beingallowed to die off. The best flocks yield an average of seven pounds.The shearing season, which begins in early June, lasts about six weeks.Shearers get six and a half cents a head for inferior sheep, and sevenand a half cents for the better quality, and a good hand shears fromsixty to eighty in a day. It is not likely that sheep-raising willattain anything of the prominence which cattle-raising is likely toassume. The potato beetle "scare" is not of much account in thecountry of the potato beetle. The farmers seem much depressed by themagnitude and persistency of the grasshopper pest which finds theirfields in the morning "as the garden of Eden," and leaves them at night"a desolate wilderness."

It was so odd and novel to have a beautiful bed room, hot water, andother luxuries. The snow began to fall in good earnest at six in theevening, and fell all night, accompanied by intense frost, so that inthe morning there were eight inches of it glittering in the sun. MissP. gave me a pair of men's socks to draw on over my boots, and I setout tolerably early, and broke my own way for two miles. Then a singlewagon had passed, making a legible track for thirty miles, otherwisethe snow was pathless. The sky was absolutely cloudless, and as I madethe long ascent of the Arkansas Divide, the mountains, gashed by deepcanyons, came sweeping down to the valley on my right, and on my leftthe Foot Hills were crowned with colored fantastic rocks like castles.Everything was buried under a glittering shroud of snow. The babble ofthe streams was bound by fetters of ice. No branches creaked in thestill air. No birds sang. No one passed or met me. There were nocabins near or far. The only sound was the crunch of the snow underBirdie's feet. We came to a river over which some logs were laid withsome young trees across them. Birdie put one foot on this, then drewit back and put another on, then smelt the bridge noisily. Persuasionswere useless; she only smelt, snorted, held back, and turned hercunning head and looked at me. It was useless to argue the point withso sagacious a beast. To the right of the bridge the ice was muchbroken, and we forded the river there; but as it was deep enough tocome up to her body, and was icy cold to my feet, I wondered at herpreference. Afterwards I heard that the bridge was dangerous. She isthe queen of ponies, and is very gentle, though she has not only wildhorse blood, but is herself the wild horse. She is always cheerful andhungry, never tired, looks intelligently at everything, and her legsare like rocks. Her one trick is that when the saddle is put on sheswells herself to a very large size, so that if any one not accustomedto her saddles her I soon find the girth three or four inches toolarge. When I saddle her a gentle slap on her side, or any slightstart which makes her cease to hold her breath, puts it all right. Sheis quite a companion, and bathing her back, sponging her nostrils, andseeing her fed after my day's ride, is always my first care.

At last I reached a log cabin where I got a feed for us both andfurther directions. The rest of the day's ride was awful enough. Thesnow was thirteen inches deep, and grew deeper as I ascended in silenceand loneliness, but just as the sun sank behind a snowy peak I reachedthe top of the Divide, 7,975 feet above the sea level. There, inunspeakable solitude, lay a frozen lake. Owls hooted among the pines,the trail was obscure, the country was not settled, the mercury was 9degrees below zero, my feet had lost all sensation, and one of them wasfrozen to the wooden stirrup. I found that owing to the depth of thesnow I had only ridden fifteen miles in eight and a half hours, andmust look about for a place to sleep in. The eastern sky was unlikeanything I ever saw before. It had been chrysoprase, then it turned toaquamarine, and that to the bright full green of an emerald. Unless Iam color-blind, this is true. Then suddenly the whole changed, andflushed with the pure, bright, rose color of the afterglow. Birdie wassliding at every step, and I was nearly paralyzed with the cold when Ireached a cabin which had been mentioned to me, but they said thatseventeen snow-bound men were lying on the floor, and they advised meto ride half a mile farther, which I did, and reached the house of aGerman from Eisenau, with a sweet young wife and a venerablemother-in-law. Though the house was very poor, it was made attractiveby ornaments, and the simple, loving, German ways gave it a sweet homeatmosphere. My room was reached by a ladder, but I had it to myselfand had the luxury of a basin to wash in. Under the kindly treatmentof the two women my feet came to themselves, but with an amount of painthat almost deserved the name of torture.

The next morning was gray and sour, but brightened and warmed as theday went on. After riding twelve miles I got bread and milk for myselfand a feed for Birdie at a large house where there were eight boarders,each one looking nearer the grave than the other, and on remounting wasdirected to leave the main road and diverge through Monument Park, aride of twelve miles among fantastic rocks, but I lost my way, and cameto an end of all tracks in a wild canyon. Returning about six miles, Itook another track, and rode about eight miles without seeing acreature. I then came to strange gorges with wonderful upright rocksof all shapes and colors, and turning through a gate of rock, came uponwhat I knew must be Glen Eyrie, as wild and romantic a glen asimagination ever pictured. The track then passed down a valley closeunder some ghastly peaks, wild, cold, awe-inspiring scenery. Afterfording a creek several times, I came upon a decayed-looking cluster ofhouses bearing the arrogant name of Colorado City, and two milesfarther on, from the top of one of the Foot Hill ridges, I saw thebleak-looking scattered houses of the ambitious watering place ofColorado Springs, the goal of my journey of 150 miles. I got off, puton a long skirt, and rode sidewise, though the settlement scarcelylooked like a place where any deference to prejudices was necessary. Aqueer embryo-looking place it is, out on the bare Plains, yet it isrising and likely to rise, and has some big hotels much resorted to.It has a fine view of the mountains, specially of Pike's Peak, but thecelebrated springs are at Manitou, three miles off, in really finescenery. To me no place could be more unattractive than ColoradoSprings, from its utter treelessness.

I found the ——-s living in a small room which served for parlor,bedroom, and kitchen, and combined the comforts of all. It isinhabited also by two prairie dogs, a kitten, and a deerhound. It wastruly homelike. Mrs. ——- walked with me to the boarding-house whereI slept, and we sat some time in the parlor talking with the landlady.Opposite to me there was a door wide open into a bed room, and on a bedopposite to the door a very sick-looking young man was half-lying,half-sitting, fully dressed, supported by another, and a verysick-looking young man much resembling him passed in and outoccasionally, or leaned on the chimney piece in an attitude of extremedejection. Soon the door was half-closed, and some one came to it,saying rapidly, "Shields, quick, a candle!" and then there were movingsabout in the room. All this time the seven or eight people in the roomin which I was were talking, laughing, and playing backgammon, and nonelaughed louder than the landlady, who was sitting where she saw thatmysterious door as plainly as I did. All this time, and during themovings in the room, I saw two large white feet sticking up at the endof the bed. I watched and watched, hoping those feet would move, butthey did not; and somehow, to my thinking, they grew stiffer andwhiter, and then my horrible suspicion deepened, and while we weresitting there a human spirit untended and desolate had passed forthinto the night. Then a man came out with a bundle of clothes, and thenthe sick young man, groaning and sobbing, and then a third, who said tome, with some feeling, that the man who had just died was the sickyoung man's only brother. And still the landlady laughed and talked,and afterwards said to me, "It turns the house upside down when theyjust come here and die; we shall be half the night laying him out." Icould not sleep for the bitter cold and the sound of the sobs andgroans of the bereaved brother. The next day the landlady, in afashionably-made black dress, was bustling about, proud of theprospective arrival of a handsome coffin. I went into the parlor toget a needle, and the door of THAT room was open, and children wererunning in and out, and the landlady, who was sweeping there, calledcheerily to me to come in for the needle, and there, to my horror, noteven covered with a face cloth, and with the sun blazing in through theunblinded window, lay that thing of terror, a corpse, on some chairswhich were not even placed straight. It was buried in the afternoon,and from the looks of the brother, who continued to sob and moan, hisend cannot be far off.

The ——-s say that many go to the Springs in the last stage ofconsumption, thinking that the Colorado climate will cure them, withoutmoney enough to pay for even the coarsest board. We talked most ofthat day, and I equipped myself with arctics and warm gloves for themountain tour which has been planned for me, and I gave Birdie theSabbath she was entitled to on Tuesday, for I found, on arriving at theSprings, that the day I crossed the Arkansas Divide was Sunday, thoughI did not know it. Several friends of Miss Kingsley called on me; sheis much remembered and beloved. This is not an expensive tour; we costabout ten shillings a day, and the five days which I have spent enroute from Denver have cost something less than the fare for the fewhours' journey by the cars. There are no real difficulties. It is asplendid life for health and enjoyment. All my luggage being in apack, and my conveyance being a horse, we can go anywhere where we canget food and shelter.

GREAT GORGE OF THE MANITOU, October 29.

This is a highly picturesque place, with several springs, still andeffervescing, the virtues of which were well known to the Indians.Near it are places, the names of which are familiar to every one—theGarden of the Gods, Glen Eyrie, Pike's Peak, Monument Park, and the UtePass. It has two or three immense hotels, and a few housespicturesquely situated. It is thronged by thousands of people in thesummer who come to drink the waters, try the camp cure, and makemountain excursions; but it is all quiet now, and there are only a fewlingerers in this immense hotel. There is a rushing torrent in avalley, with mountains, covered with snow and rising to a height ofnearly 15,000 feet, overhanging it. It is grand and awful, and has astrange, solemn beauty like death. And the Snowy Mountains are piercedby the torrent which has excavated the Ute Pass, by which, to-morrow, Ihope to go into the higher regions. But all may be "lost for want of ahorseshoe nail." One of Birdie's shoes is loose, and not a nail is tobe got here, or can be got till I have ridden for ten miles up thePass. Birdie amuses every one with her funny ways. She always followsme closely, and to-day got quite into a house and pushed the parlordoor open. She walks after me with her head laid on my shoulder,licking my face and teasing me for sugar, and sometimes, when any oneelse takes hold of her, she rears and kicks, and the vicious broncosoul comes into her eyes. Her face is cunning and pretty, and shemakes a funny, blarneying noise when I go up to her. The men at allthe stables make a fuss with her, and call her "Pet." She gallops upand down hill, and never stumbles even on the roughest ground, orrequires even a touch with a whip.

The weather is again perfect, with a cloudless sky and a hot sun, andthe snow is all off the plains and lower valleys. After lunch, the——-s in a buggy, and I on Birdie, left Colorado Springs, crossing theMesa, a high hill with a table top, with a view of extraordinarylaminated rocks, LEAVES of rock a bright vermilion color, against abackground of snowy mountains, surmounted by Pike's Peak. Then weplunged into cavernous Glen Eyrie, with its fantastic needles ofcolored rock, and were entertained at General Palmer's "baronialmansion," a perfect eyrie, the fine hall filled with buffalo, elk, anddeer heads, skins of wild animals, stuffed birds, bear robes, andnumerous Indian and other weapons and trophies. Then through a gate ofhuge red rocks, we passed into the valley, called fantastically, Gardenof the Gods, in which, were I a divinity, I certainly would not chooseto dwell. Many places in this neighborhood are also vulgarized bygrotesque names. From this we passed into a ravine, down which theFountain River rushed, and there I left my friends with regret, androde into this chill and solemn gorge, from which the mountains,reddening in the sunset, are only seen afar off. I put Birdie up at astable, and as there was no place to put myself up but this huge hotel,I came here to have a last taste of luxury. They charge six dollars aday in the season, but it is now half-price; and instead of fourhundred fashionable guests there are only fifteen, most of whom arespeaking in the weak, rapid accents of consumption, and are coughingtheir hearts out. There are seven medicinal springs. It is strange tohave the luxuries of life in my room. It will be only the fourth nightin Colorado that I have slept on anything better than hay or straw. Iam glad that there are so few inns. As it is, I get a good deal ofinsight into the homes and modes of living of the settlers.

BERGENS PARK, October 31.

This cabin was so dark, and I so sleepy last night, that I could notwrite; but the frost during the night has been very severe, and I amdetained until the bright, hot sun melts the ice and renders travelingsafe. I left the great Manitou at ten yesterday. Birdie, who wasloose in the stable, came trotting down the middle of it when she sawme for her sugar and biscuits. No nails could be got, and her shoe washanging by two, which doomed me to a foot's pace and the dismal clinkof a loose shoe for three hours. There was not a cloud on the brightblue sky the whole day, and though it froze hard in the shade, it wassummer heat in the sun. The mineral fountains were sparkling in theirbasins and sending up their full perennial jets but the snow-clad,pine-skirted mountains frowned and darkened over the Ute Pass as Ientered it to ascend it for twenty miles. A narrow pass it is, withbarely room for the torrent and the wagon road which has been blastedout of its steep sides. All the time I was in sight of the FountainRiver, brighter than any stream, because it tumbles over rose-redgranite, rocky or disintegrated, a truly fair stream, cutting andforcing its way through hard rocks, under arches of alabaster ice,through fringes of crystalline ice, thumping with a hollow sound incavernous recesses cold and dark, or leaping in foam from heights withrush and swish; always bright and riotous, never pausing in still poolsto rest, dashing through gates of rock, pine hung, pine bridged, pineburied; twinkling and laughing in the sunshine, or frowning in "dowiedens" in the blue pine gloom. And there, for a mile or two in asheltered spot, owing to the more southern latitude, the everlastingnorthern pine met the trees of other climates. There were dwarf oaks,willows, hazel, and spruce; the white cedar and the trailing juniperjostled each other for a precarious foothold; the majestic redwood treeof the Pacific met the exquisite balsam pine of the Atlantic slopes,and among them all the pale gold foliage of the large aspen trembled(as the legend goes) in endless remorse. And above them towered thetoothy peaks of the glittering mountains, rising in pure white againstthe sunny blue. Grand! glorious! sublime! but not lovable. I wouldgive all for the luxurious redundance of one Hilo gulch, or for one dayof those soft dreamy "skies whose very tears are balm."

Bergens Park

Up ever! the road being blasted out of the red rock which oftenoverhung it, the canyon only from fifteen to twenty feet wide, thethunder of the Fountain, which is crossed eight times, nearlydeafening. Sometimes the sun struck the road, and then it wasabsolutely hot; then one entered unsunned gorges where the snow laydeep, and the crowded pines made dark twilight, and the river roaredunder ice bridges fringed by icicles. At last the Pass opened out upona sunlit upland park, where there was a forge, and with Birdie's shoeput on, and some shoe nails in my purse, I rode on cheerfully, gettingfood for us both at a ranch belonging to some very pleasant people,who, like all Western folk, when they are not taciturn, asked a legionof questions. There I met a Colonel Kittridge, who said that hebelieved his valley, twelve miles off the track, to be the loveliestvalley in Colorado, and invited me to his house. Leaving the road, Iwent up a long ascent deep in snow, but as it did not seem to be theway, I tied up the pony, and walked on to a cabin at some distance,which I had hardly reached when I found her trotting like a dog by myside, pulling my sleeve and laying her soft gray nose on my shoulder.Does it all mean sugar? We had eight miles farther to go—most of theway through a forest, which I always dislike when alone, from the fearof being frightened by something which may appear from behind a tree.I saw a beautiful white fox, several skunks, some chipmunks and graysquirrels, owls, crows, and crested blue-jays. As the sun was gettinglow I reached Bergens Park, which was to put me out of conceit withEstes Park. Never! It is long and featureless, and its immediatesurroundings are mean. It reminded me in itself of some dismalHighland strath—Glenshee, possibly. I looked at it with specialinterest, as it was the place at which Miss Kingsley had suggested thatI might remain. The evening was glorious, and the distant views werevery fine. A stream fringed with cotton-wood runs through the park;low ranges come down upon it. The south end is completely closed up,but at a considerable distance, by the great mass of Pike's Peak, whilefar beyond the other end are peaks and towers, wonderful in blue andviolet in the lovely evening, and beyond these, sharply defined againstthe clear green sky, was the serrated ridge of the Snowy Range, said tobe 200 miles away. Bergens Park had been bought by Dr. Bell, ofLondon, but its present occupant is Mr. Thornton, an English gentleman,who has a worthy married Englishman as his manager. Mr. Thornton isbuilding a good house, and purposes to build other cabins, with theintention of making the park a resort for strangers. I thought of theblue hollow lying solitary at the foot of Long's Peak, and rejoicedthat I had "happened into it."

The cabin is long, low, mud roofed, and very dark. The middle place isfull of raw meat, fowls, and gear. One end, almost dark, contains thecooking-stove, milk, crockery, a long deal table, two benches, and somewooden stools; the other end houses the English manager or partner, hiswife, and three children, another cooking-stove, gear of all kinds, andsacks of beans and flour. They put up a sheet for a partition, andmade me a shake-down on the gravel floor of this room. Ten hired mensat down to meals with us. It was all very rough, dark, andcomfortless, but Mr. T., who is not only a gentleman by birth, but anM.A. of Cambridge, seems to like it. Much in this way (a littlesmoother if a lady is in the case) every man must begin life here.Seven large dogs—three of them with cats upon their backs—are usuallywarming themselves at the fire.

TWIN ROCK, SOUTH FORK OF THE PLATTE, November 1.

I did not leave Mr. Thornton's till ten, because of the slipperiness.I rode four miles along a back trail, and then was so tired that Istayed for two hours at a ranch, where I heard, to my dismay, that Imust ride twenty-four miles farther before I could find any place tosleep at. I did not enjoy yesterday's ride. I was both tired andrheumatic, and Birdie was not so sprightly as usual. After startingagain I came on a hideous place, of which I had not heard before,Hayden's Divide, one of the great back-bones of the region, a wearyexpanse of deep snow eleven miles across, and fearfully lonely. I sawnothing the whole way but a mule lately dead lying by the road. I wasvery nervous somehow, and towards evening believed that I had lost theroad, for I came upon wild pine forests, with huge masses of rock from100 to 700 feet high, cast here and there among them; beyond thesepine-sprinkled grass hills; these, in their turn, were bounded byinterminable ranges, ghastly in the lurid evening, with the SpanishPeaks quite clear, and the colossal summit of Mount Lincoln, the Kingof the Rocky Mountains, distinctly visible, though seventy miles away.It seemed awful to be alone on that ghastly ridge, surrounded byinterminable mountains, in the deep snow, knowing that a party ofthirty had been lost here a month ago. Just at nightfall the descentof a steep hill took me out of the forest and upon a clean log cabin,where, finding that the proper halting place was two miles farther on,I remained. A truly pleasing, superior-looking woman placed me in arocking chair; would not let me help her otherwise than by rocking thecradle, and made me "feel at home." The room, though it serves themand their two children for kitchen, parlor, and bed room, is thepattern of brightness, cleanliness, and comfort. At supper there werecanned raspberries, rolls, butter, tea, venison, and fried rabbit, andat seven I went to bed in a carpeted log room, with a thick feather bedon a mattress, sheets, ruffled pillow slips, and a pile of warm whiteblankets! I slept for eleven hours. They discourage me much about theroute which Governor Hunt has projected for me. They think that it isimpassable, owing to snow, and that another storm is brewing.

HALL'S GULCH, November 6.

I have ridden 150 miles since I wrote last. On leaving Twin Rock onSaturday I had a short day's ride to Colonel Kittridge's cabin at OilCreek, where I spent a quiet Sunday with agreeable people. The ridewas all through parks and gorges, and among pine-clothed hills, about9,000 feet high, with Pike's Peak always in sight. I have developedmuch sagacity in finding a trail, or I should not be able to make useof such directions as these: "Keep along a gulch four or five milestill you get Pike's Peak on your left, then follow some wheel-markstill you get to some timber, and keep to the north till you come to acreek, where you'll find a great many elk tracks; then go to your rightand cross the creek three times, then you'll see a red rock to yourleft," etc., etc. The K's cabin was very small and lonely, and thelife seemed a hard grind for an educated and refined woman. There weresnow flurries after I arrived, but the first Sunday of November was asbright and warm as June, and the atmosphere had resumed its exquisitepurity. Three peaks of Pike's Peak are seen from Oil Creek, above thenearer hills, and by them they tell the time. We had been in theevening shadows for half an hour before those peaks ceased to betransparent gold.

On leaving Colonel Kittridge's hospitable cabin I dismounted, as I hadoften done before, to lower a bar, and, on looking round, Birdie wasgone! I spent an hour in trying to catch her, but she had taken an"ugly fit," and would not let me go near her; and I was getting tiredand vexed, when two passing trappers, on mules, circumvented and caughther. I rode the twelve miles back to Twin Rock, and then went on, akindly teamster, who was going in the same direction, taking my pack.I must explain that every mile I have traveled since leaving ColoradoSprings has taken me farther and higher into the mountains. Thatafternoon I rode through lawnlike upland parks, with the great snowmass of Pike's Peak behind, and in front mountains bathed in richatmospheric coloring of blue and violet, all very fine, but threateningto become monotonous, when the wagon road turned abruptly to the left,and crossed a broad, swift, mountain river, the head-waters of thePlatte. There I found the ranch to which I had been recommended, thequarters of a great hunter named Link, which much resembled a goodcountry inn. There was a pleasant, friendly woman, but the men wereall away, a thing I always regret, as it gives me half an hour's workat the horse before I can write to you. I had hardly come in when avery pleasant German lady, whom I met at Manitou, with three gentlemen,arrived, and we were as sociable as people could be. We had a splendidthough rude supper. While Mrs. Link was serving us, and urging hergood things upon us, she was orating on the greediness of Englishpeople, saying that "you would think they traveled through the countryonly to gratify their palates"; and addressed me, asking me if I hadnot observed it! I am nearly always taken for a Dane or a Swede, neverfor an Englishwoman, so I often hear a good deal of outspoken criticism.

In the evening Mr. Link returned, and there was a most vehementdiscussion between him, an old hunter, a miner, and the teamster whobrought my pack, as to the route by which I should ride through themountains for the next three or four days—because at that point I wasto leave the wagon road—and it was renewed with increased violence thenext morning, so that if my nerves had not been of steel I should havebeen appalled. The old hunter acrimoniously said he "must speak thetruth," the miner was directing me over a track where for twenty-fivemiles there was not a house, and where, if snow came on, I should neverbe heard of again. The miner said he "must speak the truth," thehunter was directing me over a pass where there were five feet of snow,and no trail. The teamster said that the only road possible for ahorse was so-and-so, and advised me to take the wagon road into SouthPark, which I was determined not to do. Mr. Link said he was theoldest hunter and settler in the district, and he could not cross anyof the trails in snow. And so they went on. At last they partiallyagreed on a route—"the worst road in the Rocky Mountains," the oldhunter said, with two feet of snow upon it, but a hunter had hauled anelk over part of it, at any rate. The upshot of the whole you shallhave in my next letter.

I. L. B.

Letter XI

Tarryall Creek—The Red Range—Excelsior—Importunate pedlars—Snow andheat—A bison calf—Deep drifts—South Park—The Great Divide—ComancheBill—Difficulties—Hall's Gulch—A Lord Dundreary—Ridiculous fears.

HALL'S GULCH, COLORADO, November 6.

It was another cloudless morning, one of the many here on which oneawakes early, refreshed, and ready to enjoy the fatigues of anotherday. In our sunless, misty climate you do not know the influence whichpersistent fine weather exercises on the spirits. I have been tenmonths in almost perpetual sunshine, and now a single cloudy day makesme feel quite depressed. I did not leave till 9:30, because of theslipperiness, and shortly after starting turned off into the wildernesson a very dim trail. Soon seeing a man riding a mile ahead, I rode onand overtook him, and we rode eight miles together, which wasconvenient to me, as without him I should several times have lost thetrail altogether. Then his fine American horse, on which he had onlyridden two days, broke down, while my "mad, bad bronco," on which I hadbeen traveling for a fortnight, cantered lightly over the snow. He wasthe only traveler I saw in a day of nearly twelve hours. I thoroughlyenjoyed every minute of that ride. I concentrated all my faculties ofadmiration and of locality, for truly the track was a difficult one. Isometimes thought it deserved the bad name given to it at Link's. Forthe most part it keeps in sight of Tarryall Creek, one of the largeaffluents of the Platte, and is walled in on both sides by mountains,which are sometimes so close together as to leave only the narrowestcanyon between them, at others breaking wide apart, till, after windingand climbing up and down for twenty-five miles, it lands one on abarren rock-girdled park, watered by a rapid fordable stream as broadas the Ouse at Huntingdon, snow fed and ice fringed, the park borderedby fantastic rocky hills, snow covered and brightened only by a dwarfgrowth of the beautiful silver spruce. I have not seen anythinghitherto so thoroughly wild and unlike the rest of these parts.

I rode up one great ascent where hills were tumbled about confusedly;and suddenly across the broad ravine, rising above the sunny grass andthe deep green pines, rose in glowing and shaded red against theglittering blue heaven a magnificent and unearthly range of mountains,as shapely as could be seen, rising into colossal points, cleft by deepblue ravines, broken up into sharks' teeth, with gigantic knobs andpinnacles rising from their inaccessible sides, very fair to lookupon—a glowing, heavenly, unforgettable sight, and only four milesoff. Mountains they looked not of this earth, but such as one sees indreams alone, the blessed ranges of "the land which is very far off."They were more brilliant than those incredible colors in which paintersarray the fiery hills of Moab and the Desert, and one could not believethem for ever uninhabited, for on them rose, as in the East, thesimilitude of stately fortresses, not the gray castellated towers offeudal Europe, but gay, massive, Saracenic architecture, the outgrowthof the solid rock. They were vast ranges, apparently of enormousheight, their color indescribable, deepest and reddest near thepine-draped bases, then gradually softening into wonderful tenderness,till the highest summits rose all flushed, and with an illusion oftransparency, so that one might believe that they were taking on thehue of sunset. Below them lay broken ravines of fantastic rocks, cleftand canyoned by the river, with a tender unearthly light over all, theapparent warmth of a glowing clime, while I on the north side was inthe shadow among the pure unsullied snow.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom;
With them the sunset's rosy bloom.

The dimness of earth with me, the light of heaven with them. Here,again, worship seemed the only attitude for a human spirit, and thequestion was ever present, "Lord, what is man, that Thou art mindful ofhim; or the son of man, that Thou visitest him?" I rode up and downhills laboriously in snow-drifts, getting off often to ease my faithfulBirdie by walking down ice-clad slopes, stopping constantly to feast myeyes upon that changeless glory, always seeing some new ravine, withits depths of color or miraculous brilliancy of red, or phantasy ofform. Then below, where the trail was locked into a deep canyon wherethere was scarcely room for it and the river, there was a beauty ofanother kind in solemn gloom. There the stream curved and twistedmarvellously, widening into shallows, narrowing into deep boilingeddies, with pyramidal firs and the beautiful silver spruce fringingits banks, and often falling across it in artistic grace, the gloomchill and deep, with only now and then a light trickling through thepines upon the cold snow, when suddenly turning round I saw behind, asif in the glory of an eternal sunset, those flaming and fantasticpeaks. The effect of the combination of winter and summer wassingular. The trail ran on the north side the whole time, and the snowlay deep and pure white, while not a wreath of it lay on the southside, where abundant lawns basked in the warm sun.

The pitch pine, with its monotonous and somewhat rigid form, haddisappeared; the white pine became scarce, both being displayed by theslim spires and silvery green of the miniature silver spruce. Valleyand canyon were passed, the flaming ranges were left behind, the upperaltitudes became grim and mysterious. I crossed a lake on the ice, andthen came on a park surrounded by barren contorted hills, overtopped bysnow mountains. There, in some brushwood, we crossed a deepish streamon the ice, which gave way, and the fearful cold of the water stiffenedmy limbs for the rest of the ride. All these streams become bigger asyou draw nearer to their source, and shortly the trail disappeared in abroad rapid river, which we forded twice. The trail was very difficultto recover. It ascended ever in frost and snow, amidst scanty timberdwarfed by cold and twisted by storms, amidst solitudes such as onereads of in the High Alps; there were no sounds to be heard but thecrackle of ice and snow, the pitiful howling of wolves, and the hoot ofowls. The sun to me had long set; the peaks which had blushed werepale and sad; the twilight deepened into green; but still "Excelsior!"There were no happy homes with light of household fires; above, thespectral mountains lifted their cold summits. As darkness came on Ibegan to fear that I had confused the cabin to which I had beendirected with the rocks. To confess the truth, I was cold, for myboots and stockings had frozen on my feet, and I was hungry too, havingeaten nothing but raisins for fourteen hours. After riding thirtymiles I saw a light a little way from the track, and found it to be thecabin of the daughter of the pleasant people with whom I had spent theprevious night. Her husband had gone to the Plains, yet she, with twoinfant children, was living there in perfect security. Two pedlars,who were peddling their way down from the mines, came in for a night'sshelter soon after I arrived—ill-looking fellows enough. They admiredBirdie in a suspicious fashion, and offered to "swop" their pack horsefor her. I went out the last thing at night and the first thing in themorning to see that "the powny" was safe, for they were veryimportunate on the subject of the "swop." I had before been offered150 dollars for her. I was obliged to sleep with the mother andchildren, and the pedlars occupied a room within ours. It was hot andairless. The cabin was papered with the Phrenological Journal, and inthe morning I opened my eyes on the very best portrait of Dr. CandlishI ever saw, and grieved truly that I should never see that massive browand fantastic face again.

Mrs. Link was an educated and very intelligent young woman. Thepedlars were Irish Yankees, and the way in which they "traded" was asamusing as "Sam Slick." They not only wanted to "swop" my pony, but to"trade" my watch. They trade their souls, I know. They displayedtheir wares for an hour with much dexterous flattery andpersuasiveness, but Mrs. Link was untemptable, and I was only temptedinto buying a handkerchief to keep the sun off. There was anotherdispute about my route. It was the most critical day of my journey.If a snowstorm came on, I might be detained in the mountains for manyweeks; but if I got through the snow and reached the Denver wagon road,no detention would signify much. The pedlars insisted that I could notget through, for the road was not broken. Mrs. L. thought I could, andadvised me to try, so I saddled Birdie and rode away.

More than half of the day was far from enjoyable. The morning wasmagnificent, but the light too dazzling, the sun too fierce. As soonas I got out I felt as if I should drop off the horse. My largehandkerchief kept the sun from my neck, but the fierce heat caused souland sense, brain and eye, to reel. I never saw or felt the like of it.I was at a height of 12,000 feet, where, of course, the air was highlyrarefied, and the snow was so pure and dazzling that I was obliged tokeep my eyes shut as much as possible to avoid snow blindness. The skywas a different and terribly fierce color; and when I caught a glimpseof the sun, he was white and unwinking like a lime-ball light, yetthrew off wicked scintillations. I suffered so from nausea,exhaustion, and pains from head to foot, that I felt as if I must liedown in the snow. It may have been partly the early stage of soroche,or mountain sickness. We plodded on for four hours, snow all round,and nothing else to be seen but an ocean of glistening peaks againstthat sky of infuriated blue. How I found my way I shall never know,for the only marks on the snow were occasional footprints of a man, andI had no means of knowing whether they led in the direction I ought totake. Earlier, before the snow became so deep, I passed the last greathaunt of the magnificent mountain bison, but, unfortunately, sawnothing but horns and bones. Two months ago Mr. Link succeeded inseparating a calf from the herd, and has partially domesticated it. Itis a very ugly thing at seven months old, with a thick beard, and ashort, thick, dark mane on its heavy shoulders. It makes a loud gruntlike a pig. It can outrun their fastest horse, and it sometimes leapsover the high fence of the corral, and takes all the milk of five cows.

The snow grew seriously deep. Birdie fell thirty times, I am sure.She seemed unable to keep up at all, so I was obliged to get off andstumble along in her footmarks. By that time my spirit for overcomingdifficulties had somewhat returned, for I saw a lie of country which Iknew must contain South Park, and we had got under cover of a hillwhich kept off the sun. The trail had ceased; it was only one of thosehunter's tracks which continually mislead one. The getting through thesnow was awful work. I think we accomplished a mile in something overtwo hours. The snow was two feet eight inches deep, and once we wentdown in a drift the surface of which was rippled like sea sand, Birdieup to her back, and I up to my shoulders!

At last we got through, and I beheld, with some sadness, the goal of myjourney, "The Great Divide," the Snowy Range, and between me and itSouth Park, a rolling prairie seventy-five miles long and over 10,000feet high, treeless, bounded by mountains, and so rich in sun-cured haythat one might fancy that all the herds of Colorado could find pasturethere. Its chief center is the rough mining town of Fairplay, butthere are rumors of great mineral wealth in various quarters. Theregion has been "rushed," and mining camps have risen at Alma andelsewhere, so lawless and brutal that vigilance committees are formingas a matter of necessity. South Park is closed, or nearly so, by snowduring an ordinary winter; and just now the great freight wagons arecarrying up the last supplies of the season, and taking down women andother temporary inhabitants. A great many people come up here in thesummer. The rarefied air produces great oppression on the lungs,accompanied with bleeding. It is said that you can tell a new arrivalby seeing him go about holding a blood-stained handkerchief to hismouth. But I came down upon it from regions of ice and snow; and asthe snow which had fallen on it had all disappeared by evaporation anddrifting, it looked to me quite lowland and livable, though lonely andindescribably mournful, "a silent sea," suggestive of "the muffledoar." I cantered across the narrow end of it, delighted to have gotthrough the snow; and when I struck the "Denver stage road" I supposedthat all the difficulties of mountain travel were at an end, but thishas not turned out to be exactly the case.

A horseman shortly joined me and rode with me, got me a fresh horse,and accompanied me for ten miles. He was a picturesque figure and rodea very good horse. He wore a big slouch hat, from under which a numberof fair curls hung nearly to his waist. His beard was fair, his eyesblue, and his complexion ruddy. There was nothing sinister in hisexpression, and his manner was respectful and frank. He was dressed ina hunter's buckskin suit ornamented with beads, and wore a pair ofexceptionally big brass spurs. His saddle was very highly ornamented.What was unusual was the number of weapons he carried. Besides a riflelaid across his saddle and a pair of pistols in the holsters, hecarried two revolvers and a knife in his belt, and a carbine slungbehind him. I found him what is termed "good company." He told me agreat deal about the country and its wild animals, with some huntingadventures, and a great deal about Indians and their cruelty andtreachery. All this time, having crossed South Park, we were ascendingthe Continental Divide by what I think is termed the Breckenridge Pass,on a fairly good wagon road. We stopped at a cabin, where the womanseemed to know my companion, and, in addition to bread and milk,produced some venison steaks. We rode on again, and reached the crestof the Divide (see engraving), and saw snow-born streams startingwithin a quarter of a mile from each other, one for the Colorado andthe Pacific, the other for the Platte and the Atlantic. Here I wishedthe hunter good-bye, and reluctantly turned north-east. It was notwise to go up the Divide at all, and it was necessary to do it inhaste. On my way down I spoke to the woman at whose cabin I had dined,and she said, "I am sure you found Comanche Bill a real gentleman"; andI then knew that, if she gave me correct information, my intelligent,courteous companion was one of the most notorious desperadoes of theRocky Mountains, and the greatest Indian exterminator on thefrontier—a man whose father and family fell in a massacre at SpiritLake by the hands of Indians, who carried away his sister, then a childof eleven. His life has since been mainly devoted to a search for thischild, and to killing Indians wherever he can find them.

After riding twenty miles, which made the distance for that day fifty,I remounted Birdie to ride six miles farther, to a house which had beenmentioned to me as a stopping place. The road ascended to a height of11,000 feet, and from thence I looked my last at the lonely, upliftedprairie sea. "Denver stage road!" The worst, rudest, dismallest,darkest road I have yet traveled on, nothing but a winding ravine, thePlatte canyon, pine crowded and pine darkened, walled in on both sidesfor six miles by pine-skirted mountains 12,000 feet high! Along thisabyss for fifty miles there are said to be only five houses, and wereit not for miners going down, and freight wagons going up, the solitudewould be awful. As it was, I did not see a creature. It was four whenI left South Park, and between those mountain walls and under the pinesit soon became quite dark, a darkness which could be felt. The snowwhich had melted in the sun had re-frozen, and was one sheet of smoothice. Birdie slipped so alarmingly that I got off and walked, but thenneither of us could keep our feet, and in the darkness she seemed solikely to fall upon me, that I took out of my pack the man's sockswhich had been given me at Perry's Park, and drew them on over herfore-feet—an expedient which for a time succeeded admirably, and whichI commend to all travelers similarly circumstanced. It was unutterablydark, and all these operations had to be performed by the sense oftouch only. I remounted, allowed her to take her own way, as I couldnot see even her ears, and though her hind legs slipped badly, wecontrived to get along through the narrowest part of the canyon, with atumbling river close to the road. The pines were very dense, andsighed and creaked mournfully in the severe frost, and there were otherEERIE noises not easy to explain. At last, when the socks were nearlyworn out, I saw the blaze of a camp-fire, with two hunters sitting byit, on the hill side, and at the mouth of a gulch something whichlooked like buildings. We got across the river partly on ice andpartly by fording, and I found that this was the place where, in spiteof its somewhat dubious reputation, I had been told that I could put up.

A man came out in the sapient and good-natured stage of intoxication,and, the door being opened, I was confronted by a rough bar and asmoking, blazing kerosene lamp without a chimney. This is the worstplace I have put up at as to food, lodging, and general character; anold and very dirty log cabin, not chinked, with one dingy room used forcooking and feeding, in which a miner was lying very ill of fever; thena large roofless shed with a canvas side, which is to be an addition,and then the bar. They accounted for the disorder by the buildingoperations. They asked me if I were the English lady written of in theDenver News, and for once I was glad that my fame had preceded me, asit seemed to secure me against being quietly "put out of the way." Ahorrible meal was served—dirty, greasy, disgusting. A celebratedhunter, Bob Craik, came in to supper with a young man in tow, whom, inspite of his rough hunter's or miner's dress, I at once recognized asan English gentleman. It was their camp-fire which I had seen on thehill side. This gentleman was lording it in true caricature fashion,with a Lord Dundreary drawl and a general execration of everything;while I sat in the chimney corner, speculating on the reason why manyof the upper class of my countrymen—"High Toners," as they are calledout here—make themselves so ludicrously absurd. They neither know howto hold their tongues or to carry their personal pretensions. AnAmerican is nationally assumptive, an Englishman personally so. Hetook no notice of me till something passed which showed him I wasEnglish, when his manner at once changed into courtesy, and his drawlwas shortened by a half. He took pains to let me know that he was anofficer in the Guards, of good family, on four months' leave, which hewas spending in slaying buffalo and elk, and also that he had aprofound contempt for everything American. I cannot think whyEnglishmen put on these broad, mouthing tones, and give so manypersonal details. They retired to their camp, and the landlord havingpassed into the sodden, sleepy stage of drunkenness, his wife asked ifI should be afraid to sleep in the large canvas-sided, unceiled,doorless shed, as they could not move the sick miner. So, I sleptthere on a shake-down, with the stars winking overhead through theroof, and the mercury showing 30 degrees of frost.

I never told you that I once gave an unwary promise that I would nottravel alone in Colorado unarmed, and that in consequence I left EstesPark with a Sharp's revolver loaded with ball cartridge in my pocket,which has been the plague of my life. Its bright ominous barrel peepedout in quiet Denver shops, children pulled it out to play with, or whenmy riding dress hung up with it in the pocket, pulled the whole fromthe peg to the floor; and I cannot conceive of any circumstances inwhich I could feel it right to make any use of it, or in which it coulddo me any possible good. Last night, however, I took it out, cleanedand oiled it, and laid it under my pillow, resolving to keep awake allnight. I slept as soon as I lay down, and never woke till the brightmorning sun shone through the roof, making me ridicule my own fears andabjure pistols for ever.

I. L. B.

Letter XII

Deer Valley—Lynch law—Vigilance committees—The silver spruce—Tasteand abstinence—The whisky fiend—Smartness—Turkey creek Canyon—TheIndian problem—Public rascality—Friendly meetings—The way to theGolden City—A rising settlement—Clear CreekCanyon—Staging—Swearing—A mountain town.

DEER VALLEY, November.

To-night I am in a beautiful place like a Dutch farm—large, warm,bright, clean, with abundance of clean food, and a clean, cold littlebedroom to myself. But it is very hard to write, for two free-tongued,noisy Irish women, who keep a miners' boarding-house in South Park, andare going to winter quarters in a freight wagon, are telling the mostfearful stories of violence, vigilance committees, Lynch law, and"stringing," that I ever heard. It turns one's blood cold only tothink that where I travel in perfect security, only a short time agomen were being shot like skunks. At the mining towns up above thisnobody is thought anything of who has not killed a man—i.e. in acertain set. These women had a boarder, only fifteen, who thought hecould not be anything till he had shot somebody, and they gave anabsurd account of the lad dodging about with a revolver, and notgetting up courage enough to insult any one, till at last he hidhimself in the stable and shot the first Chinaman who entered. Thingsup there are just in that initial state which desperadoes love. A manaccidentally shoves another in a saloon, or says a rough word at meals,and the challenge, "first finger on the trigger," warrants either inshooting the other at any subsequent time without the formality of aduel. Nearly all the shooting affrays arise from the most trivialcauses in saloons and bar-rooms. The deeper quarrels, arising fromjealousy or revenge, are few, and are usually about some woman notworth fighting for. At Alma and Fairplay vigilance committees havebeen lately formed, and when men act outrageously and make themselvesgenerally obnoxious they receive a letter with a drawing of a tree, aman hanging from it, and a coffin below, on which is written"Forewarned." They "git" in a few hours.

When I said I spent last night at Hall's Gulch there was quite a chorusof exclamations. My host there, they all said, would be "strung"before long. Did I know that a man was "strung" there yesterday? HadI not seen him hanging? He was on the big tree by the house, theysaid. Certainly, had I known what a ghastly burden that tree bore, Iwould have encountered the ice and gloom of the gulch rather than haveslept there. They then told me a horrid tale of crime and violence.This man had even shocked the morals of the Alma crowd, and had anotice served on him by the vigilants, which had the desired effect,and he migrated to Hall's Gulch. As the tale runs, the Hall's Gulchminers were resolved either not to have a groggery or to limit thenumber of such places, and when this ruffian set one up he was"forewarned." It seems, however, to have been merely a pretext forgetting rid of him, for it was hardly a crime of which even Lynch lawcould take cognizance. He was overpowered by numbers, and, withcircumstances of great horror, was tried and strung on that tree withinan hour.[19]

[19] Public opinion approved this execution, regarding it as a fittingretribution for a series of crimes.

I left the place this morning at ten, and have had a very pleasant day,for the hills shut out the hot sun. I only rode twenty-two miles, forthe difficulty of riding on ice was great, and there is no blacksmithwithin thirty-five miles of Hall's Gulch. I met two freighters justafter I left, who gave me the unwelcome news that there werethirty-miles of ice between that and Denver. "You'll have a toughtrip," they said. The road runs up and down hill, walled in along witha rushing river by high mountains. The scenery is very grand, but Ihate being shut into these deep gorges, and always expect to see somestartling object moving among the trees. I met no one the whole dayafter passing the teams except two men with a "pack-jack," Birdie hatesjacks, and rears and shies as soon as she sees one. It was a bad road,one shelving sheet of ice, and awfully lonely, and between the peril ofthe mare breaking her leg on the ice and that of being crushed bywindfalls of timber, I had to look out all day. Towards sunset I cameto a cabin where they "keep travelers," but the woman looked so vinegarfaced that I preferred to ride four miles farther, up a beautiful roadwinding along a sunny gulch filled with silver spruce, bluer and moresilvery than any I have yet seen, and then crossed a divide, from whichthe view in all the ecstasy of sunset color was perfectly glorious. Itwas enjoyment also in itself to get out of the deep chasm in which Ihad been immured all day. There is a train of twelve freight wagonshere, each wagon with six horses, but the teamsters carry their owncamping blankets and sleep either in their wagons or on the floor, sothe house is not crowded.

It is a pleasant two-story log house, not only chinked but lined withplaned timber. Each room has a great open chimney with logs burning init; there are pretty engravings on the walls, and baskets full ofcreepers hanging from the ceiling. This is the first settler's house Ihave been in in which the ornamental has had any place. There is adoor to each room, the oak chairs are bright with rubbing, and thefloor, though unplaned, is so clean that one might eat off it. Thetable is clean and abundant, and the mother and daughter, though theydo all the work, look as trim as if they did none, and actually laughheartily. The ranchman neither allows drink to be brought into thehouse nor to be drunk outside, and on this condition only he "keepstravelers." The freighters come in to supper quite well washed, andthough twelve of them slept in the kitchen, by nine o'clock there wasnot a sound. This freighting business is most profitable. I thinkthat the charge is three cents per pound from Denver to South Park, andthere much of the freight is transferred to "pack-jacks" and carried upto the mines. A railroad, however, is contemplated. I breakfastedwith the family after the freight train left, and instead of sittingdown to gobble up the remains of a meal, they had a fresh table-clothand hot food. The buckets are all polished oak, with polished brassbands; the kitchen utensils are bright as rubbing can make them; and,more wonderful still, the girls black their boots. Blacking usually isan unused luxury, and frequently is not kept in houses. My boots haveonly been blacked once during the last two months.

DENVER, November 9.

I could not make out whether the superiority of the Deer Valleysettlers extended beyond material things, but a teamster I met in theevening said it "made him more of a man to spend a night in such ahouse." In Colorado whisky is significant of all evil and violence andis the cause of most of the shooting affrays in the mining camps.There are few moderate drinkers; it is seldom taken except to excess.The great local question in the Territory, and just now the greatelectoral issue, is drink or no drink, and some of the papers areopenly advocating a prohibitive liquor law. Some of the districts,such as Greeley, in which liquor is prohibited, are without crime, andin several of the stock-raising and agricultural regions through whichI have traveled where it is practically excluded the doors are neverlocked, and the miners leave their silver bricks in their wagonsunprotected at night. People say that on coming from the EasternStates they hardly realize at first the security in which they live.There is no danger and no fear. But the truth of the proverbialsaying, "There is no God west of the Missouri" is everywhere manifest.The "almighty dollar" is the true divinity, and its worship isuniversal. "Smartness" is the quality thought most of. The boy who"gets on" by cheating at his lessons is praised for being a "smartboy," and his satisfied parents foretell that he will make a "smartman." A man who overreaches his neighbor, but who does it so cleverlythat the law cannot take hold of him, wins an envied reputation as a"smart man," and stories of this species of smartness are toldadmiringly round every stove. Smartness is but the initial stage ofswindling, and the clever swindler who evades or defines the weak andoften corruptly administered laws of the States excites unmeasuredadmiration among the masses.[20]

[20] May, 1878.—I am copying this letter in the city of San Francisco,and regretfully add a strong emphasis to what I have written above.The best and most thoughtful among Americans would endorse theseremarks with shame and pain.—I. L. B.

I left Deer Valley at ten the next morning on a glorious day, with richatmospheric coloring, had to spend three hours sitting on a barrel in aforge after I had ridden twelve miles, waiting while twenty-four oxenwere shod, and then rode on twenty-three miles through streams andcanyons of great beauty till I reached a grocery store, where I had toshare a room with a large family and three teamsters; and being almostsuffocated by the curtain partition, got up at four, before any one wasstirring, saddled Birdie, and rode away in the darkness, leaving mymoney on the table! It was a short eighteen miles' ride to Denver downthe Turkey Creek Canyon, which contains some magnificent scenery, andthen the road ascends and hangs on the ledge of a precipice 600 feet indepth, such a narrow road that on meeting a wagon I had to dismount forfear of hurting my feet with the wheels. From thence there was awonderful view through the rolling Foot Hills and over the gray-brownplains to Denver. Not a tree or shrub was to be seen, everything wasrioting in summer heat and drought, while behind lay the last grandcanyon of the mountains, dark with pines and cool with snow. I leftthe track and took a short cut over the prairie to Denver, passingthrough an encampment of the Ute Indians about 500 strong, a disorderlyand dirty huddle of lodges, ponies, men, squaws, children, skins,bones, and raw meat.

The Americans will never solve the Indian problem till the Indian isextinct. They have treated them after a fashion which has intensifiedtheir treachery and "devilry" as enemies, and as friends reduces themto a degraded pauperism, devoid of the very first elements ofcivilization. The only difference between the savage and the civilizedIndian is that the latter carries firearms and gets drunk on whisky.The Indian Agency has been a sink of fraud and corruption; it is saidthat barely thirty per cent of the allowance ever reaches those forwhom it is voted; and the complaints of shoddy blankets, damaged flour,and worthless firearms are universal. "To get rid of the Injuns" isthe phrase used everywhere. Even their "reservations" do not escapeseizure practically; for if gold "breaks out" on them they are"rushed," and their possessors are either compelled to accept landfarther west or are shot off and driven off. One of the surest agentsin their destruction is vitriolized whisky. An attempt has recentlybeen made to cleanse the Augean stable of the Indian Department, but ithas met with signal failure, the usual result in America of everyeffort to purify the official atmosphere. Americans specially lovesuperlatives. The phrases "biggest in the world," "finest in theworld," are on all lips. Unless President Hayes is a strong man theywill soon come to boast that their government is composed of the"biggest scoundrels" in the world.

As I rode into Denver and away from the mountains the view becameglorious, as range above range crowned with snow came into sight. Iwas sure that three glistening peaks seventy miles north were thepeerless shapeliness of Long's Peak, the king of the Rocky Mountains,and the "mountain fever" returned so severely that I grudged every hourspent on the dry, hot plains. The Range looked lovelier and sublimerthan when I first saw it from Greeley, all spiritualized in thewonderful atmosphere. I went direct to Evans's house, where I found ahearty welcome, as they had been anxious about my safety, and Evansalmost at once arrived from Estes Park with three elk, one grizzly, andone bighorn in his wagon. Regarding a place and life one likes (inspite of all lessons) one is sure to think, "To-morrow shall be as thisday, and much more abundant"; and all through my tour I had thought ofreturning to Estes Park and finding everything just as it was. Evansbrought the unwelcome news that the goodly fellowship was broken up.The Dewys and Mr. Waller were in Denver, and the house was dismantled,Mr. and Mrs. Edwards alone remaining, who were, however, expecting meback. Saturday, though like a blazing summer day, was wonderful in itsbeauty, and after sunset the afterglow was richer and redder than Ihave ever seen it, but the heavy crimson betokened severe heat, whichcame on yesterday, and was hardly bearable.

I attended service twice at the Episcopal church, where the service wasbeautifully read and sung; but in a city in which men preponderate thecongregation was mainly composed of women, who fluttered their fans ina truly distracting way. Except for the church-going there were fewperceptible signs of Sunday in Denver, which was full of rowdies fromthe mountain mining camps. You can hardly imagine the delight ofjoining in those grand old prayers after so long a deprivation. The"Te Deum" sounded heavenly in its magnificence; but the heat was sotremendous that it was hard to "warstle" through the day. They saythat they have similar outbreaks of solar fury all through the winter.

GOLDEN CITY, November 13.

Pleasant as Denver was, with the Dewys and so many kind friends there,it was too much of the "wearying world" either for my health or taste,and I left for my sixteen miles' ride to this place at four on Mondayafternoon with the sun still hot. Passing by a bare, desolate-lookingcemetery, I asked a sad-looking woman who was leaning on the gate ifshe could direct me to Golden City. I repeated the question twicebefore I got an answer, and then, though easily to be accounted for, itwas wide of the mark. In most doleful tones she said, "Oh, go to theminister; I might tell you, may be, but it's too great aresponsibility; go to the ministers, they can tell you!" And shereturned to her tears for some one whose spirit she was doubtlessthinking of as in the Golden City of our hopes. That sixteen milesseemed like one mile, after sunset, in the rapturous freshness of theColorado air, and Birdie, after her two days' rest and with a lightenedload, galloped across the prairie as if she enjoyed it. I did notreach this gorge till late, and it was an hour after dark before Igroped my way into this dark, unlighted mining town, where, however, wewere most fortunate both as to stable and accommodation for myself.

BOULDER, November 16.

I fear you will grow tired of the details of these journal letters. Toa person sitting quietly at home, Rocky Mountain traveling, like RockyMountain scenery, must seem very monotonous; but not so to me, to whomthe pure, dry mountain air is the elixir of life. At Golden City Iparted for a time from my faithful pony, as Clear Creek Canyon, whichleads from it to Idaho, is entirely monopolized by a narrow-gaugerailroad, and is inaccessible for horses or mules. To be without ahorse in these mountains is to be reduced to complete helplessness. Mygreat wish was to see Green Lake, situated near the timber line aboveGeorgetown (said to be the highest town in the United States), at aheight of 9,000 feet. A single day took me from the heat of summerinto the intense cold of winter.

Golden City by daylight showed its meanness and belied its name. It isungraded, with here and there a piece of wooden sidewalk, supported onposts, up to which you ascend by planks. Brick, pine, and log housesare huddled together, every other house is a saloon, and hardly a womanis to be seen. My landlady apologized for the very exquisite littlebedroom which she gave me by saying "it was not quite as she would likeit, but she had never had a lady in her house before." The young"lady" who waited at breakfast said, "I've been thinking about you, andI'm certain sure you're an authoress." The day, as usual, wasglorious. Think of November half through and scarcely even a cloud inthe sky, except the vermilion cloudlets which accompany the sun at hisrising and setting! They say that winter never "sets in" there in theFoot Hills, but that there are spells of cold, alternating with bright,hot weather, and that the snow never lies on the ground so as tointerfere with the feed of cattle. Golden City rang with oaths andcurses, especially at the depot. Americans are given over to the mostatrocious swearing, and the blasphemous use of our Savior's name ispeculiarly revolting.

Golden City stands at the mouth of Toughcuss, otherwise Clear CreekCanyon, which many people think the grandest scenery in the mountains,as it twists and turns marvellously, and its stupendous sides arenearly perpendicular, while farther progress is to all appearancecontinually blocked by great masses of rock and piles of snow-coveredmountains. Unfortunately, its sides have been almost entirely denudedof timber, mining operations consuming any quantity of it. Thenarrow-gauge, steel-grade railroad, which runs up the canyon for theconvenience of the rich mining districts of Georgetown, Black Hawk, andCentral City, is a curiosity of engineering. The track has partly beenblasted out of the sides of the canyon, and has partly been "built" bymaking a bed of stones in the creek itself, and laying the track acrossthem. I have never seen such churlishness and incivility as in theofficials of that railroad and the state lines which connect with it,or met with such preposterous charges. They have handsome little carson the route, but though the passengers paid full fare, they put usinto a baggage car because the season was over, and in order to seeanything I was obliged to sit on the floor at the door. The singulargrandeur cannot be described. It is a mere gash cut by the torrent,twisted, walled, chasmed, weather stained with the most brilliantcoloring, generally dark with shadow, but its utter desolationoccasionally revealed by a beam of intense sunshine. A few stuntedpines and cedars, spared because of their inaccessiblity, hung here andthere out of the rifts. Sometimes the walls of the abyss seemed tomeet overhead, and then widening out, the rocks assumed fantasticforms, all grandeur, sublimity, and almost terror. After two hours ofthis, the track came to an end, and the canyon widened sufficiently fora road, all stones, holes, and sidings. There a great "Concord coach"waited for us, intended for twenty passengers, and a mountain ofluggage in addition, and the four passengers without any luggage sat onthe seat behind the driver, so that the huge thing bounced and swungupon the straps on which it was hung so as to recall the worst horrorsof New Zealand staging. The driver never spoke without an oath, andthough two ladies were passengers, cursed his splendid horses the wholetime. Formerly, even the most profane men intermitted their profanityin the presence of women, but they "have changed all that." Every oneI saw up there seemed in a bad temper. I suspect that all their "smarttricks" in mining shares had gone wrong.

The road pursued the canyon to Idaho Springs, a fashionable mountainresort in the summer, but deserted now, where we took a superb team ofsix horses, with which we attained a height of 10,000 feet, and then adescent of 1,000 took us into Georgetown, crowded into as remarkable agorge as was ever selected for the site of a town, the canyon beyondAPPARENTLY terminating in precipitous and inaccessible mountains,sprinkled with pines up to the timber line, and thinly covered withsnow. The area on which it is possible to build is so circumcised andsteep, and the unpainted gable-ended houses are so perched here andthere, and the water rushes so impetuously among them, that it remindedme slightly of a Swiss town. All the smaller houses are shored up withyoung pines on one side, to prevent them from being blown away by thefierce gusts which sweep the canyon. It is the only town I have seenin America to which the epithet picturesque could be applied. Buttruly, seated in that deep hollow in the cold and darkness, it is in aterrible situation, with the alpine heights towering round it. Iarrived at three, but its sun had set, and it lay in deep shadow. Infact, twilight seemed coming on, and as I had been unable to get mycircular notes cashed at Denver, I had no money to stay over the nextday, and much feared that I should lose Green Lake, the goal of myjourney. We drove through the narrow, piled-up, irregular street,crowded with miners standing in groups, or drinking and gaming underthe verandas, to a good hotel declivitously situated, where I at onceinquired if I could get to Green Lake. The landlord said he thoughtnot; the snow was very deep, and no one had been up for five weeks, butfor my satisfaction he would send to a stable and inquire. The amusinganswer came back, "If it's the English lady traveling in the mountains,she can have a horse, but not any one else."

Letter XIII

The blight of mining—Green Lake—GoldenCity—Benighted—Vertigo—Boulder Canyon—Financial straits—A hardride—The last cent—A bachelor's home—"Mountain Jim"—A surprise—Anight arrival—Making the best of it—Scanty fare.

BOULDER, November.

The answer regarding a horse (at the end of my former letter) was givento the landlord outside the hotel, and presently he came in and askedmy name and if I were the lady who had crossed from Link's to SouthPark by Tarryall Creek; so news travels fast. In five minutes thehorse was at the door, with a clumsy two-horned side-saddle, and Istarted at once for the upper regions. It was an exciting ride, muchspiced with apprehension. The evening shadows had darkened overGeorgetown, and I had 2,000 feet to climb, or give up Green Lake. Ishall forget many things, but never the awfulness and hugeness of thescenery. I went up a steep track by Clear Creek, then a succession offrozen waterfalls in a widened and then narrowed valley, whose frozensides looked 5,000 feet high. That is the region of enormous mineralwealth in silver. There are the "Terrible" and other mines whoseshares you can see quoted daily in the share lists in the Times,sometimes at cent per cent premium, and then down to 25 discount.

These mines, with their prolonged subterranean workings, their stampingand crushing mills, and the smelting works which have been establishednear them, fill the district with noise, hubbub, and smoke by night andday; but I had turned altogether aside from them into a still region,where each miner in solitude was grubbing for himself, and confiding tonone his finds or disappointments. Agriculture restores andbeautifies, mining destroys and devastates, turning the earth insideout, making it hideous, and blighting every green thing, as it usuallyblights man's heart and soul. There was mining everywhere along thatgrand road, with all its destruction and devastation, its digging,burrowing, gulching, and sluicing; and up all along the seeminglyinaccessible heights were holes with their roofs log supported, inwhich solitary and patient men were selling their lives for treasure.Down by the stream, all among the icicles, men were sluicing andwashing, and everywhere along the heights were the scars ofhardly-passable trails, too steep even for pack-jacks, leading to theholes, and down which the miner packs the ore on his back. Many aheart has been broken for the few finds which have been made alongthose hill sides. All the ledges are covered with charred stumps, apicture of desolation, where nature had made everything grand and fair.But even from all this I turned. The last miner I saw gave me explicitdirections, and I left the track and struck upwards into the icysolitudes—sheets of ice at first, then snow, over a foot deep, pureand powdery, then a very difficult ascent through a pine forest, whereit was nearly dark, the horse tumbling about in deep snowdrifts. Butthe goal was reached, and none too soon.

At a height of nearly 12,000 feet I halted on a steep declivity, andbelow me, completely girdled by dense forests of pines, with mountainsred and glorified in the sunset rising above them, was Green Lake,looking like water, but in reality a sheet of ice two feet thick. Fromthe gloom and chill below I had come up into the pure air and sunsetlight, and the glory of the unprofaned works of God. It brought to mymind the verse, "The darkness is past, and the true light now shineth";and, as if in commentary upon it, were the hundreds and thousands ofmen delving in dark holes in the gloom of the twilight below.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices,
O delved gold, the wailer's heap,
God strikes a silence through you all,
He giveth His beloved sleep.

It was something to reach that height and see the far off glory of thesunset, and by it to be reminded that neither God nor His sun had yetdeserted the world. But the sun was fast going down, and even as Igazed upon the wonderful vision the glory vanished, and the peaksbecame sad and grey. It was strange to be the only human being at thatglacial altitude, and to descend again through a foot of untrodden snowand over sloping sheets of ice into the darkness, and to see the hillsides like a firmament of stars, each showing the place where asolitary man in his hole was delving for silver. The view, as long asI could see it, was quite awful. It looked as if one could not reachGeorgetown without tumbling down a precipice. Precipices there were inplenty along the road, skirted with ice to their verge. It was theonly ride which required nerve that I have taken in Colorado, and itwas long after dark when I returned from my exploit.

I left Georgetown at eight the next morning on the Idaho stage, inglorious cold. In this dry air it is quite warm if there are only afew degrees of frost. The sun does not rise in Georgetown till elevennow; I doubt if it rises there at all in the winter! After four hours'fearful bouncing, the baggage car again received us, but this time theconductor, remarking that he supposed I was just traveling to see thecountry, gave me his chair and put it on the platform, so that I had anexcellent view of that truly sublime canyon. For economy I dined in arestaurant in Golden City, and at three remounted my trusty Birdie,intending to arrive here that night. The adventure I met with isalmost too silly to tell.

When I left Golden City it was a brilliant summer afternoon, and nottoo hot. They could not give any directions at the stable, and told meto go out on the Denver track till I met some one who could direct me,which started me off wrong from the first. After riding about twomiles I met a man who told me I was all wrong, and directed me acrossthe prairie till I met another, who gave me so many directions that Iforgot them, and was irretrievably lost. The afterglow, seen toperfection on the open plain, was wonderful. Just as it grew dark Irode after a teamster who said I was then four miles farther fromBoulder than when I left Golden, and directed me to a house seven milesoff. I suppose he thought I should know, for he told me to cross theprairie till I came to a place where three tracks are seen, and thereto take the best-traveled one, steering all the time by the north star.His directions did bring me to tracks, but it was then so dark that Icould see nothing, and soon became so dark that I could not even seeBirdie's ears, and was lost and benighted. I rode on, hour after hour,in the darkness and solitude, the prairie all round and a firmament offrosty stars overhead. The prairie wolf howled now and then, andoccasionally the lowing of cattle gave me hope of human proximity. Butthere was nothing but the lone wild plain. You can hardly imagine thelonging to see a light, to hear a voice, the intensely eerie feeling ofbeing alone in that vast solitude. It was freezing very sharply andwas very cold, and I was making up my mind to steer all night for thepole-star, much fearing that I should be brought up by one of theaffluents of the Platte, or that Birdie would tire, when I heard theundertoned bellowing of a bull, which, from the snorting rooting up ofearth, seemed to be disputing the right of way, and the pony was afraidto pass. While she was scuffling about, I heard a dog bark and a manswear; then I saw a light, and in another minute found myself at alarge house, where I knew the people, only eleven miles from Denver!It was nearly midnight, and light, warmth, and a good bed were trulywelcome.

You can form no idea of what the glory on the Plains is just beforesunrise. Like the afterglow, for a great height above the horizonthere is a shaded band of the most intense and glowing orange, whilethe mountains which reflect the yet unrisen sun have the purple lightof amethysts. I left early, but soon lost the track and was lost; butknowing that a sublime gash in the mountains was Bear Canyon, quitenear Boulder, I struck across the prairie for it, and then found theBoulder track. "The best-laid schemes of men and mice gang aft agley,"and my exploits came to an untimely end to-day. On arriving here,instead of going into the mountains, I was obliged to go to bed inconsequence of vertigo, headache, and faintness, produced by theintense heat of the sun. In all that weary land there was no "shadowof a great rock" under which to rest. The gravelly, baked soilreflected the fiery sun, and it was nearly maddening to look up at thecool blue of the mountains, with their stretches of pines and theirdeep indigo shadows. Boulder is a hideous collection of frame houseson the burning plain, but it aspires to be a "city" in virtue of beinga "distributing point" for the settlements up the Boulder Canyon, andof the discovery of a coal seam.

LONGMOUNT, November.

I got up very early this morning, and on a hired horse went nine milesup the Boulder Canyon, which is much extolled, but I was greatlydisappointed with everything except its superb wagon road, and muchdisgusted with the laziness of the horse. A ride of fifteen milesacross the prairie brought me here early in the afternoon, but of thebudget of letters which I expected there is not one. Birdie looks insuch capital condition that my host here can hardly believe that shehas traveled over 500 miles. I am feeling "the pinch of poverty"rather severely. When I have paid my bill here I shall have exactlytwenty-six cents left. Evans was quite unable to pay the hundreddollars which he owed me, and, to save themselves, the Denver banks,though they remain open, have suspended payment, and would not cash mycircular notes. The financial straits are very serious, and theunreasoning panic which has set in makes them worse. The present stateof matters is—nobody has any money, so nothing is worth anything. Theresult to me is that, nolens volens, I must go up to Estes Park, whereI can live without ready money, and remain there till things change forthe better. It does not seem a very hard fate! Long's Peak rises inpurple gloom, and I long for the cool air and unfettered life of thesolitary blue hollow at its base.

ESTES PARK, November 20.

Would that three notes of admiration were all I need give to my grand,solitary, uplifted, sublime, remote, beast-haunted lair, which seemsmore indescribable than ever; but you will wish to know how I havesped, and I wish you to know my present singular circumstances. I leftLongmount at eight on Saturday morning, rather heavily loaded, for inaddition to my own luggage I was asked to carry the mail-bag, which washeavy with newspapers. Edwards, with his wife and family, were stillbelieved to be here. A heavy snow-storm was expected, and all thesky—that vast dome which spans the Plains—was overcast; but over themountains it was a deep, still, sad blue, into which snowy peaks rosesunlighted. It was a lonely, mournful-looking morning, but when Ireached the beautiful canyon of the St. Vrain, the sad blue becamebrilliant, and the sun warm and scintillating. Ah, how beautiful andincomparable the ride up here is, infinitely more beautiful than themuch-vaunted parts I have seen elsewhere.

There is, first, this beautiful hill-girdled valley of fair savannas,through which the bright St. Vrain curves in and out amidst a tangle ofcotton-wood and withered clematis and Virginia creeper, which twomonths ago made the valley gay with their scarlet and gold. Then thecanyon, with its fantastically-stained walls; then the long ascentthrough sweeping foot hills to the gates of rock at a height of 9,000feet; then the wildest and most wonderful scenery for twenty miles, inwhich you cross thirteen ranges from 9,000 to 11,000 feet high, passthrough countless canyons and gulches, cross thirteen dark fords, andfinally descend, through M'Ginn's Gulch, upon this, the gem of theRocky Mountains. It was a weird ride. I got on very slowly. The roadis a hard one for any horse, specially for a heavily-loaded one, and atthe end of several weeks of severe travel. When I had ridden fifteenmiles I stopped at the ranch where people usually get food, but it wasempty, and the next was also deserted. So I was compelled to go to thelast house, where two young men are "baching."

There I had to decide between getting a meal for myself or a feed forthe pony; but the young man, on hearing of my sore poverty, trusted me"till next time." His house, for order and neatness, and a sort ofsprightliness of cleanliness—the comfort of cleanliness without itsseverity—is a pattern to all women, while the clear eyes and manlyself-respect which the habit of total abstinence gives in this countryare a pattern to all men. He cooked me a splendid dinner, with goodtea. After dinner I opened the mail-bag, and was delighted to find anaccumulation of letters from you; but I sat much too long there,forgetting that I had twenty miles to ride, which could hardly be donein less than six hours. It was then brilliant. I had not realized themagnificence of that ride when I took it before, but the pony wastired, and I could not hurry her, and the distance seemed interminable,as after every range I crossed another range. Then came a region ofdeep, dark, densely-wooded gulches, only a few feet wide, and manyfords, and from their cold depths I saw the last sunlight fade from thebrows of precipices 4,000 feet high. It was eerie, as darkness cameon, to wind in and out in the pine-shadowed gloom, sometimes on ice,sometimes in snow, at the bottom of these tremendous chasms. Wolveshowled in all directions. This is said to denote the approach of astorm. During this twenty-mile ride I met a hunter with an elk packedon his horse, and he told me not only that the Edwardses were at thecabin yesterday, but that they were going to remain for two weekslonger, no matter how uncongenial. The ride did seem endless afterdarkness came on. Finally the last huge range was conquered, the lastdeep chasm passed, and with an eeriness which craved for humancompanionship, I rode up to "Mountain Jim's" den, but no light shonethrough the chinks, and all was silent. So I rode tediously downM'Ginn's Gulch, which was full of crackings and other strange mountainnoises, and was pitch dark, though the stars were bright overhead.

Soon I heard the welcome sound of a barking dog. I supposed it todenote strange hunters, but calling "Ring" at a venture, the nobledog's large paws and grand head were in a moment on my saddle, and hegreeted me with all those inarticulate but perfectly comprehensiblenoises with which dogs welcome their human friends. Of the two men onhorses who accompanied him, one was his master, as I knew by themusical voice and grace of manner, but it was too dark to see anyone,though he struck a light to show me the valuable furs with which one ofthe horses was loaded. The desperado was heartily glad to see me, andsending the man and fur-laden horse on to his cabin, he turned with meto Evans's; and as the cold was very severe, and Birdie was very tired,we dismounted and walked the remaining three miles. All my visions ofa comfortable reception and good meal after my long ride vanished withhis first words. The Edwardses had left for the winter on the previousmorning, but had not passed through Longmount; the cabin wasdismantled, the stores were low, and two young men, Mr. Kavan, a miner,and Mr. Buchan, whom I was slightly acquainted with before, were"baching" there to look after the stock until Evans, who was dailyexpected, returned. The other settler and his wife had left the park,so there was not a woman within twenty-five miles. A fierce wind hadarisen, and the cold was awful, which seemed to make matters darker. Idid not care in the least about myself. I could rough it, and enjoydoing so, but I was very sorry for the young men, who, I knew, would bemuch embarrassed by the sudden appearance of a lady for an indefinitetime. But the difficulty had to be faced, and I walked in and tookthem by surprise as they were sitting smoking by the fire in the livingroom, which was dismantled, unswept, and wretched looking.

The young men did not show any annoyance, but exerted themselves toprepare a meal, and courteously made Jim share it. After he had gone,I boldly confessed my impecunious circumstances, and told them that Imust stay there till things changed, that I hoped not to inconveniencethem in any way, and that by dividing the work among us they would befree to be out hunting. So we agreed to make the best of it. (Ourarrangements, which we supposed would last only two or three days,extended over nearly a month. Nothing could exceed the courtesy andgood feeling which these young men showed. It was a very pleasant timeon the whole and when we separated they told me that though they weremuch "taken aback" at first, they felt at last that we could get on inthe same way for a year, in which I cordially agreed.) Sundry practicaldifficulties had to be faced and overcome. There was one of the commonspring mattresses of the country in the little room which opened fromthe living room, but nothing upon it. This was remedied by making alarge bag and filling it with hay. Then there were neither sheets,towels, nor table-clothes. This was irremediable, and I never missedthe first or last. Candles were another loss, and we had only oneparaffin lamp. I slept all night in spite of a gale which blew allSunday and into Monday afternoon, threatening to lift the cabin fromthe ground, and actually removing part of the roof from the little roombetween the kitchen and living room, in which we used to dine. Sundaywas brilliant, but nearly a hurricane, and I dared not stir outside thecabin. The parlor was two inches deep in the mud from the roof. Wenominally divide the cooking. Mr. Kavan makes the best bread I everate; they bring in wood and water, and wash the supper things, and I"do" my room and the parlor, wash the breakfast things, and number ofetceteras. My room is easily "done," but the parlor is a never-endingbusiness. I have swept shovelfuls of mud out of it three times to-day.There is nothing to dust it with but a buffalo's tail, and every nowand then a gust descends the open chimney and drives the wood ashes allover the room. However, I have found an old shawl which answers for atable-cloth, and have made our "parlor" look a little more habitable.Jim came in yesterday in a silent mood, and sat looking vacantly intothe fire. The young men said that this mood was the usual precursor ofan "ugly fit."

Food is a great difficulty. Of thirty milch cows only one is left, andshe does not give milk enough for us to drink. The only meat is somepickled pork, very salt and hard, which I cannot eat, and the hens layless than one egg a day. Yesterday morning I made some rolls, and madethe last bread into a bread-and-butter pudding, which we all enjoyed.To-day I found part of a leg of beef hanging in the wagon shed, and wewere elated with the prospect of fresh meat, but on cutting into it wefound it green and uneatable. Had it not been for some tea which wasbestowed upon me at the inn at Longmount we should have had none. Inthis superb air and physically active life I can eat everything butpickled pork. We breakfast about nine, dine at two, and have supper atseven, but our MENU never varies.

To-day I have been all alone in the park, as the men left to hunt elkafter breakfast, after bringing in wood and water. The sky isbrilliant and the light intense, or else the solitude would beoppressive. I keep two horses in the corral so as to be able toexplore, but except Birdie, who is turned out, none of the animals areworth much now from want of shoes, and tender feet.

Letter XIV

A dismal ride—A desperado's tale—"Lost! Lost! Lost!"—Winterglories—Solitude—Hard times—Intense cold—A pack of wolves—Thebeaver dams—Ghastly scenes—Venison steaks—Our evenings.

ESTES PARK.

I must attempt to put down the trifling events of each day just as theyoccur. The second time that I was left alone Mr. Nugent came inlooking very black, and asked me to ride with him to see the beaverdams on the Black Canyon. No more whistling or singing, or talking tohis beautiful mare, or sparkling repartee.

His mood was as dark as the sky overhead, which was black with animpending snowstorm. He was quite silent, struck his horse often,started off on a furious gallop, and then throwing his mare on herhaunches close to me, said, "You're the first man or woman who'streated me like a human being for many a year." So he said in thisdark mood, but Mr. and Mrs. Dewy, who took a very deep interest in hiswelfare, always treated him as a rational, intelligent gentleman, andin his better moments he spoke of them with the warmest appreciation."If you want to know," he continued, "how nearly a man can become adevil, I'll tell you now." There was no choice, and we rode up thecanyon, and I listened to one of the darkest tales of ruin I have everheard or read.

Its early features were very simple. His father was a British officerquartered at Montreal, of a good old Irish family. From his account hewas an ungovernable boy, imperfectly educated, and tyrannizing over aloving but weak mother. When seventeen years old he saw a young girlat church whose appearance he described as being of angelic beauty, andfell in love with her with all the intensity of an uncontrolled nature.He saw her three times, but scarcely spoke to her. On his motheropposing his wish and treating it as a boyish folly, he took to drink"to spite her," and almost as soon as he was eighteen, maddened by thegirl's death, he ran away from home, entered the service of theHudson's Bay Company, and remained in it for several years, onlyleaving it because he found even that lawless life too strict for him.Then, being as I suppose about twenty-seven, he entered the service ofthe United States Government, and became one of the famous Indianscouts of the Plains, distinguishing himself by some of the most daringdeeds on record, and some of the bloodiest crimes. Some of these talesI have heard before, but never so terribly told. Years must havepassed in that service, till he became a character known through allthe West, and much dreaded for his readiness to take offence, and hisequal readiness with his revolver. Vain, even in his dark mood, hetold me that he was idolized by women, and that in his worst hours hewas always chivalrous to good women. He described himself as ridingthrough camps in his scout's dress with a red scarf round his waist,and sixteen golden curls, eighteen inches long, hanging over hisshoulders. The handsome, even superbly handsome, side of his face wastowards me as he spoke. As a scout and as an armed escort of emigrantparties he was evidently implicated in all the blood and broil of alawless region and period, and went from bad to worse, varying his lifeby drunken sprees, which brought nothing but violence and loss.

The narrative seemed to lack some link, for I next found him on ahomestead in Missouri, from whence he came to Colorado a few years ago.There, again, something was dropped out, but I suspect, and not withoutreason, that he joined one or more of those gangs of "border ruffians"which for so long raided through Kansas, perpetrating such massacresand outrages as that of the Marais du Cygne. His fame for violence andruffianism preceded him into Colorado, where his knowledge of and loveof the mountains have earned him the sobriquet he now bears. He has asquatter's claim and forty head of cattle, and is a successful trapperbesides, but envy and vindictiveness are raging within him. He getsmoney, goes to Denver, and spends large sums in the maddestdissipation, making himself a terror, and going beyond even suchdesperadoes as "Texas Jack" and "Wild Bill"; and when the money is donereturns to his mountain den, full of hatred and self-scorn, till thenext time. Of course I cannot give details.

The story took three hours to tell, and was crowded with terrificillustrations of a desperado's career, told with a rush of wildeloquence that was truly thrilling.

When the snow, which for some time had been falling, compelled him tobreak off and guide me to a sheltered place from which I could make myown way back again, he stopped his horse and said, "Now you see a manwho has made a devil of himself! Lost! Lost! Lost! I believe inGod. I've given Him no choice but to put me with 'the devil and hisangel.' I'm afraid to die. You've stirred the better nature in me toolate. I can't change. If ever a man were a slave, I am. Don't speakto me of repentance and reformation. I can't reform. Your voicereminded me of ——-." Then in feverish tones, "How dare you ride withme? You won't speak to me again, will you?" He made me promise tokeep one or two things secret whether he were living or dead, and Ipromised, for I had no choice; but they come between me and thesunshine sometimes, and I wake at night to think of them. I wish I hadbeen spared the regret and excitement of that afternoon. A lessungovernable nature would never have spoken as he did, nor told me whathe did; but his proud, fierce soul all poured itself out then, withhatred and self-loathing, blood on his hands and murder in his heart,though even then he could not be altogether other than a gentleman, oraltogether divest himself of fascination, even when so tempestuouslyrevealing the darkest points of his character. My soul dissolved inpity for his dark, lost, self-ruined life, as he left me and turnedaway in the blinding storm to the Snowy Range, where he said he wasgoing to camp out for a fortnight; a man of great abilities, realgenius, singular gifts, and with all the chances in life which othermen have had. How far more terrible than the "Actum est: periisti" ofCowper is his exclamation, "Lost! Lost! Lost!"

The storm was very severe, and the landmarks being blotted out, I lostmy way in the snow, and when I reached the cabin after dark I found itstill empty, for the two hunters, on returning, finding that I had goneout, had gone in search of me. The snow cleared off late, and intensefrost set in. My room is nearly the open air, being built of unchinkedlogs, and, as in the open air, one requires to sleep with the headburied in blankets, or the eyelids and breath freeze. The sunshine hasbeen brilliant to-day. I took a most beautiful ride to Black Canyon tolook for the horses. Every day some new beauty, or effect of snow andlight, is to be seen. Nothing that I have seen in Colorado compareswith Estes Park; and now that the weather is magnificent, and themountain tops above the pine woods are pure white, there is nothing ofbeauty or grandeur for which the heart can wish that is not here; andit is health giving, with pure air, pure water, and absolute dryness.But there is something very solemn, at times almost overwhelming, inthe winter solitude. I have never experienced anything like it evenwhen I lived on the slopes of Hualalai. When the men are out hunting Iknow not where, or at night, when storms sweep down from Long's Peak,and the air is full of stinging, tempest-driven snow, and there isbarely a probability of any one coming, or of my communication with theworld at all, then the stupendous mountain ranges which lie between usand the Plains grow in height till they become impassable barriers, andthe bridgeless rivers grow in depth, and I wonder if all my life is tobe spent here in washing and sweeping and baking.

To-day has been one of manual labor. We did not breakfast till 9:30,then the men went out, and I never sat down till two. I cleaned theliving room and the kitchen, swept a path through the rubbish in thepassage room, washed up, made and baked a batch of rolls and fourpounds of sweet biscuits, cleaned some tins and pans, washed someclothes, and gave things generally a "redding up." There is a littlethick buttermilk, fully six weeks old, at the bottom of a churn, whichI use for raising the rolls; but Mr. Kavan, who makes "lovely" bread,puts some flour and water to turn sour near the stove, and thissucceeds admirably.

I also made a most unsatisfactory investigation into the state of myapparel. I came to Colorado now nearly three months ago, with a smallcarpet-bag containing clothes, none of them new; and these, bylegitimate wear, the depredations of calves, and the necessity oftearing some of them up for dish-cloths, are reduced to a singlechange! I have a solitary pocket handkerchief and one pair ofstockings, such a mass of darns that hardly a trace of the originalwool remains. Owing to my inability to get money in Denver I am almostwithout shoes, have nothing but a pair of slippers and some "arctics."For outer garments—well, I have a trained black silk dress, with ablack silk polonaise! and nothing else but my old flannel riding suit,which is quite threadbare, and requires such frequent mending that I amsometimes obliged to "dress" for supper, and patch and darn it duringthe evening. You will laugh, but it is singular that one can face thebitter winds with the mercury at zero and below it, in exactly the sameclothing which I wore in the tropics! It is only the extreme drynessof the air which renders it possible to live in such clothing. We havearranged the work better. Mr. Buchan was doing too much, and it washard for him, as he is very delicate. You will wonder how three peoplehere in the wilderness can have much to do. There are the horses whichwe keep in the corral to feed on sheaf oats and take to water twice aday, the fowls and dogs to feed, the cow to milk, the bread to make,and to keep a general knowledge of the whereabouts of the stock in theevent of a severe snow-storm coming on. Then there is all the wood tocut, as there is no wood pile, and we burn a great deal, and besidesthe cooking, washing, and mending, which each one does, the men musthunt and fish for their living. Then two sick cows have had to beattended to.

We were with one when it died yesterday. It suffered terribly, andlooked at us with the pathetically pleading eyes of a creature "madesubject to vanity." The disposal of its carcass was a difficulty. Thewagon horses were in Denver, and when we tried to get the others topull the dead beast away, they only kicked and plunged, so we managedto get it outside the shed, and according to Mr. Kavan's prediction, apack of wolves came down, and before daylight nothing was left but thebones. They were so close to the cabin that their noise was mostdisturbing, and on looking out several times I could see them all in aheap wrangling and tumbling over each other. They are much larger thanthe prairie wolf, but equally cowardly, I believe. This morning wasblack with clouds, and a snowstorm was threatened, and about 700 cattleand a number of horses came in long files from the valleys and canyonswhere they maraud, their instinct teaching them to seek the open andthe protection of man.

I was alone in the cabin this afternoon when Mr. Nugent, whom webelieved to be on the Snowy Range, walked in very pale and haggardlooking, and coughing severely. He offered to show me the trail up oneof the grandest of the canyons, and I could not refuse to go. The FallRiver has had its source completely altered by the operations of thebeavers. Their engineering skill is wonderful. In one place they havemade a lake by damming up the stream; in another their works havecreated an island, and they have made several falls. Theirstorehouses, of course, are carefully concealed. By this time they areabout full for the winter. We saw quantities of young cotton-wood andaspen trees, with stems about as thick as my arm, lying where theseindustrious creatures have felled them ready for their use. Theyalways work at night and in concert. Their long, sharp teeth are usedfor gnawing down the trees, but their mason-work is done entirely withtheir flat, trowel-like tails. In its natural state the fur is verydurable, and is as full of long black hairs as that of the sable, butas sold, all these hairs have been plucked out of it.

The canyon was glorious, ah! glorious beyond any other, but it was adismal and depressing ride. The dead past buried its dead.

Not an allusion was made to the conversation previously. "Jim's"manner was courteous, but freezing, and when I left home on my returnhe said he hardly thought he should be back from the Snowy Range beforeI left. Essentially an actor, was he, I wonder, posing on the previousday in the attitude of desperate remorse, to impose on my credulity orfrighten me; or was it a genuine and unpremeditated outburst ofpassionate regret for the life which he had thrown away? I cannottell, but I think it was the last. As I cautiously rode back, thesunset glories were reddening the mountain tops, and the park lay inviolet gloom. It was wonderfully magnificent, but oh, so solemn, solonely! I rode a very large, well-bred mare, with three shoes looseand one off, and she fell with me twice and was very clumsy in crossingthe Thompson, which was partly ice and partly a deep ford, but when wereached comparatively level grassy ground I had a gallop of nearly twomiles which I enjoyed thoroughly, her great swinging stride being soeasy and exhilarating after Birdie's short action.

Friday.

This is a piteous day, quite black, freezing hard, and with a fiercenorth-east wind. The absence of sunshine here, where it is nearlyperpetual, has a very depressing effect, and all the scenery appears inits grimness of black and gray. We have lost three horses, includingBirdie, and have nothing to entice them with, and not an animal to goand drive them in with. I put my great mare in the corral myself, andMr. Kavan put his in afterwards and secured the bars, but the wolveswere holding a carnival again last night, and we think that the horseswere scared and stampeded, as otherwise they would not have leaped thefence. The men are losing their whole day in looking for them. Ontheir return they said that they had seen Mr. Nugent returning to hiscabin by the other side and the lower ford of the Thompson, and that hehad "an awfully ugly fit on him," so that they were glad that he didnot come near us. The evening is setting in sublime in its blackness.Late in the afternoon I caught a horse which was snuffing at the sheafoats, and had a splendid gallop on the Longmount trail with the twogreat hunting dogs. In returning, in the grimness of the coming storm,I had that view of the park which I saw first in the glories of anautumn sunset. Life was all dead; the dragon-flies no longer darted inthe sunshine, the cotton-woods had shed their last amber leaves, thecrimson trailers of the wild vines were bare, the stream itself hadceased its tinkle and was numb in fetters of ice, a few withered flowerstalks only told of the brief bright glory of the summer. The parknever had looked so utterly walled in; it was fearful in itsloneliness, the ghastliest of white peaks lay sharply outlined againstthe black snow clouds, the bright river was ice bound, the pines wereall black, the world was absolutely shut out. How can you expect me towrite letters from such a place, from a life "in which nothinghappens"? It really is strange that neither Evans nor Edwards comeback. The young men are grumbling, for they were asked to stay herefor five days, and they have been here five weeks, and they are anxiousto be away camping out for the hunting, on which they depend. Thereare two calves dying, and we don't know what to do for them; and if avery severe snow-storm comes on, we can't bring in and feed eighthundred head of cattle.

Saturday.

The snow began to fall early this morning, and as it is unaccompaniedby wind we have the novel spectacle of a smooth white world; still itdoes not look like anything serious. We have been gradually growinglater at night and later in the morning. To-day we did not breakfasttill ten. We have been becoming so disgusted with the pickled pork,that we were glad to find it just at an end yesterday, even though wewere left without meat for which in this climate the system craves.You can fancy my surprise, on going into the kitchen, to find a dish ofsmoking steaks of venison on the table. We ate like famished people,and enjoyed our meal thoroughly. Just before I came the young men hadshot an elk, which they intended to sell in Denver, and the grandcarcass, with great branching antlers, hung outside the shed. Oftenwhile vainly trying to swallow some pickled pork I had looked across tothe tantalizing animal, but it was not to be thought of. However, thismorning, as the young men felt the pinch of hunger even more than Idid, and the prospects of packing it to Denver became worse, theydecided on cutting into one side, so we shall luxuriate in venisonwhile it lasts. We think that Edwards will surely be up to-night, butunless he brings supplies our case is looking serious. The flour isrunning low, there is only coffee for one week, and I have only ascanty three ounces of tea left. The baking powder is nearly at anend. We have agreed to economize by breakfasting very late, and havingtwo meals a day instead of three. The young men went out hunting asusual, and I went out and found Birdie, and on her brought in fourother horses, but the snow balled so badly that I went out and walkedacross the river on a very passable ice bridge, and got some new viewsof the unique grandeur of this place.

Our evenings are social and pleasant. We finish supper about eight,and make up a huge fire. The men smoke while I write to you. Then wedraw near the fire and I take my endless mending, and we talk or readaloud. Both are very intelligent, and Mr. Buchan has very extendedinformation and a good deal of insight into character. Of course ourcircumstances, the likelihood of release, the prospects of snowblocking us in and of our supplies holding out, the sick calves,"Jim's" mood, the possible intentions of a man whose footprints we havefound and traced for three miles, are all topics that often recur, andfew of which can be worn threadbare.

Letter XV

A whisky slave—The pleasures of monotony—The mountain lion—"Anothermouth to feed"—A tiresome boy—An outcast—Thanksgiving Day—Thenewcomer—A literary humbug—Milking a dry cow—Trout-fishing—Asnow-storm—A desperado's den.

ESTES PARK, Sunday.

A trapper passing last night brought us the news that Mr. Nugent isill; so, after washing up the things after our late breakfast, I rodeto his cabin, but I met him in the gulch coming down to see us. Hesaid he had caught cold on the Range, and was suffering from an oldarrow wound in the lung. We had a long conversation without advertingto the former one, and he told me some of the present circumstances ofhis ruined life. It is piteous that a man like him, in the prime oflife, should be destitute of home and love, and live a life of darknessin a den with no companions but guilty memories, and a dog which manypeople think is the nobler animal of the two. I urged him to give upthe whisky which at present is his ruin, and his answer had the ring ofa sad truth in it: "I cannot, it binds me hand and foot—I cannot giveup the only pleasure I have." His ideas of right are the queerestpossible. He says that he believes in God, but what he knows orbelieves of God's law I know not. To resent insult with your revolver,to revenge yourself on those who have injured you, to be true to acomrade and share your last crust with him, to be chivalrous to goodwomen, to be generous and hospitable, and at the last to diegame—these are the articles of his creed, and I suppose they arereceived by men of his stamp. He hates Evans with a bitter hatred, andEvans returns it, having undergone much provocation from Jim in hismoods of lawlessness and violence, and being not a little envious ofthe fascination which his manners and conversation have for thestrangers who come up here.

On returning down the gulch the view was grander than I have ever seenit, the gulch in dark shadow, the park below lying in intense sunlight,with all the majestic canyons which sweep down upon it in depths ofinfinite blue gloom, and above, the pearly peaks, dazzling in purityand glorious in form, cleft the turquoise blue of the sky. How shall Iever leave this "land which is very far off"? How CAN I ever leave it?is the real question. We are going on the principle, "Let us eat anddrink, for to-morrow we die," and the stores are melting away. The twomeals are not an economical plan, for we are so much more hungry thatwe eat more than when we had three. We had a good deal of sacred musicto-day, to make it as like Sunday as possible. The "faint melancholy"of this winter loneliness is very fascinating.

How glorious the amber fires of the winter dawns are, and howgloriously to-night the crimson clouds descended just to the mountaintops and were reflected on the pure surface of the snow!

The door of this room looks due north, and as I write the Pole Starblazes, and a cold crescent moon hangs over the ghastliness of Long'sPeak.

ESTES PARK, COLORADO, November.

We have lost count of time, and can only agree on the fact that thedate is somewhere near the end of November. Our life has settled downinto serenity, and our singular and enforced partnership is verypleasant. We might be three men living together, but for the unvaryingcourtesy and consideration which they show to me. Our work goes onlike clockwork; the only difficulty which ever arises is that the mendo not like me to do anything that they think hard or unsuitable, suchas saddling a horse or bringing in water. The days go very fast; itwas 3:30 today before I knew that it was 1. It is a calm life withoutworries. The men are so easy to live with; they never fuss, orgrumble, or sigh, or make a trouble of anything. It would amuse you tocome into our wretched little kitchen before our disgracefully latebreakfast, and find Mr. Kavan busy at the stove frying venison, myselfwashing the supper dishes, and Mr. Buchan drying them, or both the menbusy at the stove while I sweep the floor. Our food is a great objectof interest to us, and we are ravenously hungry now that we have onlytwo meals a day. About sundown each goes forth to his "chores"—Mr. K.to chop wood, Mr. B. to haul water, I to wash the milk pans and waterthe horses. On Saturday the men shot a deer, and on going for itto-day they found nothing but the hind legs, and following a trackwhich they expected would lead them to a beast's hole, they came quitecarelessly upon a large mountain lion, which, however, took itself outof their reach before they were sufficiently recovered from theirsurprise to fire at it. These lions, which are really a species ofpuma, are bloodthirsty as well as cowardly. Lately one got into asheepfold in the canyon of the St. Vrain, and killed thirty sheep,sucking the blood from their throats.

November ?

This has been a day of minor events, as well as a busy one. I was sobusy that I never sat down from 10:30 till 1:30. I had washed my onechange of raiment, and though I never iron my clothes, I like to bleachthem till they are as white as snow, and they were whitening on theline when some furious gusts came down from Long's Peak, against whichI could not stand, and when I did get out all my clothes were blowninto strips from an inch to four inches in width, literally destroyed!One learns how very little is necessary either for comfort orhappiness. I made a four-pound spiced ginger cake, baked some bread,mended my riding dress, cleaned up generally, wrote some letters withthe hope that some day they might be posted and took a magnificentwalk, reaching the cabin again in the melancholy glory which nowimmediately precedes the darkness.

We were all busy getting our supper ready when the dogs began to barkfuriously, and we heard the noise of horses. "Evans at last!" weexclaimed, but we were wrong. Mr. Kavan went out, and returned sayingthat it was a young man who had come up with Evans's wagon and team,and that the wagon had gone over into a gulch seven miles from here.Mr. Kavan looked very grave. "It's another mouth to feed," he said.They asked no questions, and brought the lad in, a slangy, assuredfellow of twenty, who, having fallen into delicate health at atheological college, had been sent up here by Evans to work for hisboard. The men were too courteous to ask him what he was doing uphere, but I boldly asked him where he lived, and to our dismay hereplied, "I've come to live here." We discussed the food questiongravely, as it presented a real difficulty. We put him into abed-closet opening from the kitchen, and decided to see what he was fitfor before giving him work. We were very much amazed, in truth, at hiscoming here. He is evidently a shallow, arrogant youth.

We have decided that to-day is November 26th; to-morrow is ThanksgivingDay, and we are planning a feast, though Mr. K. said to me again thismorning, with a doleful face, "You see there's another mouth to feed."This "mouth" has come up to try the panacea of manual labor, but he istown bred, and I see that he will do nothing. He is writing poetry,and while I was busy to-day began to read it aloud to me, asking for mycriticism. He is just at the age when everything literary has afascination, and every literary person is a hero, specially Dr.Holland. Last night was fearful from the lifting of the cabin and thebreaking of the mud from the roof. We sat with fine gravel driving inour faces, and this morning I carried four shovelfuls of mud out of myroom. After breakfast, Mr. Kavan, Mr. Lyman, and I, with the two wagonhorses, rode the seven miles to the scene of yesterday's disaster in aperfect gale of wind. I felt like a servant going out for a day's"pleasuring," hurrying "through my dishes," and leaving my room indisorder. The wagon lay half-way down the side of a ravine, kept fromdestruction by having caught on some trees.

It was too cold to hang about while the men hauled it up and fixed it,so I went slowly back, encountering Mr. Nugent in a most bittermood—almost in an "ugly fit"—hating everybody, and contrasting hisown generosity and reckless kindness with the selfishness andcarefully-weighed kindnesses of others. People do give him credit forhaving "as kind a heart as ever beat." Lately a child in the othercabin was taken ill, and though there were idle men and horses at hand,it was only the "desperado" who rode sixty miles in "the shortest timeever made" to bring the doctor. While we were talking he was sittingon a stone outside his den mending a saddle, shins, bones, and skullslying about him, "Ring" watching him with jealous and idolatrousaffection, the wind lifting his thin curls from as grand a head as wasever modeled—a ruin of a man. Yet the sun which shines "on the eviland the good" was lighting up the gold of his hair. May our Fatherwhich is in heaven yet show mercy to His outcast child!

Mr. Kavan soon overtook me, and we had an exciting race of two miles,getting home just before the wind fell and the snow began.

Thanksgiving Day. The thing dreaded has come at last, a snow-storm,with a north-east wind. It ceased about midnight, but not till it hadcovered my bed. Then the mercury fell below zero, and everythingfroze. I melted a tin of water for washing by the fire, but it washard frozen before I could use it. My hair, which was thoroughly wetwith the thawed snow of yesterday, is hard frozen in plaits. The milkand treacle are like rock, the eggs have to be kept on the coolest partof the stove to keep them fluid. Two calves in the shed were frozen todeath. Half our floor is deep in snow, and it is so cold that wecannot open the door to shovel it out. The snow began again at eightthis morning, very fine and hard. It blows in through the chinks anddusts this letter while I write. Mr. Kavan keeps my ink bottle closeto the fire, and hands it to me every time that I need to dip my pen.We have a huge fire, but cannot raise the temperature above 20 degrees.Ever since I returned the lake has been hard enough to bear a wagon,but to-day it is difficult to keep the water hole open by the constantuse of the axe. The snow may either melt or block us in. Our onlyanxiety is about the supplies. We have tea and coffee enough to lastover to-morrow, the sugar is just done, and the flour is getting low.It is really serious that we have "another mouth to feed," and thenewcomer is a ravenous creature, eating more than the three of us. Itdismays me to see his hungry eyes gauging the supply at breakfast, andto see the loaf disappear. He told me this morning that he could eatthe whole of what was on the table. He is mad after food, and I seethat Mr. K. is starving himself to make it hold out. Mr. Buchan isvery far from well, and dreads the prospect of "half rations." Allthis sounds laughable, but we shall not laugh if we have to look hungerin the face! Now in the evening the snow clouds, which have blottedout all things, are lifting, and the winter scene is wonderful. Themercury is 5 degrees below zero, and the aurora is glorious. In myunchinked room the mercury is 1 degrees below zero. Mr. Buchan canhardly get his breath; the dryness is intense. We spent the afternooncooking the Thanksgiving dinner. I made a wonderful pudding, for whichI had saved eggs and cream for days, and dried and stoned cherriessupplied the place of currants. I made a bowl of custard for sauce,which the men said was "splendid"; also a rolled pudding, withmolasses; and we had venison steak and potatoes, but for tea we wereobliged to use the tea leaves of the morning again. I should thinkthat few people in America have enjoyed their Thanksgiving dinner more.We had urged Mr. Nugent to join us, but he refused, almost savagely,which we regretted. My four-pound cake made yesterday is all gone!This wretched boy confesses that he was so hungry in the night that hegot up and ate nearly half of it. He is trying to cajole me intomaking another.

November 29.

Before the boy came I had mistaken some faded cayenne pepper forginger, and had made a cake with it. Last evening I put half of itinto the cupboard and left the door open. During the night we heard acommotion in the kitchen and much choking, coughing, and groaning, andat breakfast the boy was unable to swallow food with his usualravenousness. After breakfast he came to me whimpering, and asking forsomething soothing for his throat, admitting that he had seen the"gingerbread," and "felt so starved" in the night that he got up to eatit.

I tried to make him feel that it was "real mean" to eat so much and beso useless, and he said he would do anything to help me, but the menwere so "down on him." I never saw men so patient with a lad before.He is a most vexing addition to our party, yet one cannot help laughingat him. He is not honorable, though. I dare not leave this letterlying on the table, as he would read it. He writes for two Westernperiodicals (at least he says so), and he shows us long pieces of hispublished poetry.

In one there are twenty lines copied (as Mr. Kavan has shown me)without alteration from Paradise Lost; in another there are two stanzasfrom Resignation, with only the alteration of "stray" for "dead"; andhe has passed the whole of Bonar's Meeting-place off as his own.Again, he lent me an essay by himself, called The Function of theNovelist, which is nothing but a mosaic of unacknowledged quotations.The men tell me that he has "bragged" to them that on his way here hetook shelter in Mr. Nugent's cabin, found out where he hides his key,opened his box, and read his letters and MSS. He is a perfect plaguewith his ignorance and SELF-sufficiency. The first day after he camewhile I was washing up the breakfast things he told me that he intendedto do all the dirty work, so I left the knives and forks in the tub andasked him to wipe and lay them aside. Two hours afterwards I foundthem untouched. Again the men went out hunting, and he said he wouldchop the wood for several days' use, and after a few strokes, whichwere only successful in chipping off some shavings, he came in andstrummed on the harmonium, leaving me without any wood with which tomake the fire for supper. He talked about his skill with the lasso,but could not even catch one of our quietest horses. Worse than all,he does not know one cow from another. Two days ago he lost our milchcow in driving her in to be milked, and Mr. Kavan lost hours ofvaluable time in hunting for her without success. To-day he told ustriumphantly that he had found her, and he was sent out to milk her.After two hours he returned with a rueful face and a few drops ofwhitish fluid in the milk pail, saying that that was all he could get.On Mr. K. going out, he found, instead of our "calico" cow, a brindledone that had been dry since the spring! Our cow has gone off to thewild cattle, and we are looking very grim at Lyman, who says that heexpected he should live on milk. I told him to fill up the four-gallonkettle, and an hour afterwards found it red-hot on the stove. Nothingcan be kept from him unless it is hidden in my room. He has eaten twopounds of dried cherries from the shelf, half of my second four-poundspice loaf before it was cold, licked up my custard sauce in the night,and privately devoured the pudding which was to be for supper. Heconfesses to it all, and says, "I suppose you think me a cure." Mr. K.says that the first thing he said to him this morning was, "Will MissB. make us a nice pudding to-day?" This is all harmless, but theplagiarism and want of honor are disgusting, and quite out of keepingwith his profession of being a theological student.

This life is in some respects like being on board ship—there are nomails, and one knows nothing beyond one's little world, a very littleone in this case. We find each other true, and have learnt to esteemand trust each other. I should, for instance, go out of this roomleaving this book open on the table, knowing that the men would notread my letter. They are discreet, reticent, observant, and on manysubjects well informed, but they are of a type which has no antitype athome. All women work in this region, so there is no fuss about myworking, or saying, "Oh, you mustn't do that," or "Oh, let me do that."

November 30.

We sat up till eleven last night, so confident were we that Edwardswould leave Denver the day after Thanksgiving and get up here. Thismorning we came to the resolution that we must break up. Tea, coffee,and sugar are done, the venison is turning sour, and the men have onlyone month left for the hunting on which their winter living depends. Icannot leave the Territory till I get money, but I can go to Longmountfor the mail and hear whether the panic is abating. Yesterday I wasalone all day, and after riding to the base of Long's Peak, made tworoly-poly puddings for supper, having nothing else. The men, however,came back perfectly loaded with trout, and we had a feast. Epicures athome would have envied us. Mr. Kavan kept the frying pan with boilingbutter on the stove, butter enough thoroughly to cover the trout,rolled them in coarse corn meal, plunged them into the butter, turnedthem once, and took them out, thoroughly done, fizzing, and lemoncolored. For once young Lyman was satisfied, for the dish wasreplenished as often as it was emptied. They caught 40 lbs., and havepacked them in ice until they can be sent to Denver for sale. Thewinter fishing is very rich. In the hardest frost, men who fish notfor sport, but gain, take their axes and camping blankets, and go up tothe hard-frozen waters which lie in fifty places round the park, andchoosing a likely spot, a little sheltered from the wind, hack a holein the ice, and fastening a foot-link to a cotton-wood tree, bait thehook with maggots or bits of easily-gotten fresh meat. Often the troutare caught as fast as the hook can be baited, and looking through theice hole in the track of a sunbeam, you see a mass of tails, silverfins, bright eyes, and crimson spots, a perfect shoal of fish, andtruly beautiful the crimson-spotted creatures look, lying still anddead on the blue ice under the sunshine. Sometimes two men bring home60 lbs. of trout as the result of one day's winter fishing. It is acold and silent sport, however.

How a cook at home would despise our scanty appliances, with which weturn out luxuries. We have only a cooking-stove, which requiresincessant feeding with wood, a kettle, a frying pan, a six-gallon brasspan, and a bottle for a rolling pin. The cold has been very severe,but I do not suffer from it even in my insufficient clothing. I take apiece of granite made very hot to bed, draw the blankets over my headand sleep eight hours, though the snow often covers me. One day ofsnow, mist, and darkness was rather depressing, and yesterday ahurricane began about five in the morning, and the whole park was oneswirl of drifting snow, like stinging wood smoke. My bed and room werewhite, and the frost was so intense that water brought in a kettle hotfrom the fire froze as I poured it into the basin. Then the snowceased, and a fierce wind blew most of it out of the park, lifting itfrom the mountains in such clouds as to make Long's Peak look like asmoking volcano. To-day the sky has resumed its delicious blue, andthe park its unrivalled beauty. I have cleaned all the windows, which,ever since I have been here, I supposed were of discolored glass, soopaque and dirty they were; and when the men came home from fishingthey found a cheerful new world. We had a great deal of sacred musicand singing on Sunday. Mr. Buchan asked me if I knew a tune called"America," and began the grand roll of our National Anthem to the words:

My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty, etc.

December 1.

I was to have started for Canyon to-day, but was awoke by snow asstinging as pinpoints beating on my hand. We all got up early, but itdid not improve until nearly noon. In the afternoon Lyman and I rodeto Mr. Nugent's cabin. I wanted him to read and correct my letter toyou, giving the account of our ascent of Long's Peak, but he said hecould not, and insisted on our going in for which young Lyman was moreanxious than I was, as Mr. Kavan had seen "Jim" in the morning, anddeparted from his usual reticence so far as to say, "There's somethingwrong with that man; he'll either shoot himself or somebody else."However, the "ugly fit" had passed off, and he was so very pleasant andcourteous that we remained the whole afternoon. Lyman's one thoughtwas that he could make capital out of the interview, and write anaccount of the celebrated desperado for a Western paper.

The interior of the den was frightful, yet among his black and hideoussurroundings the grace of his manner and the genius of his conversationwere only more apparent. I read my letter aloud—or rather "The Ascentof Long's Peak," which I have written for Out West—and was sincerelyinterested with the taste and acumen of his criticisms on the style.He is a true child of nature; his eye brightened and his whole facebecame radiant, and at last tears rolled down his cheek when I read theaccount of the glory of the sunrise. Then he read us a very able paperon Spiritualism which he was writing. The den was dense with smoke,and very dark, littered with hay, old blankets, skins, bones, tins,logs, powder flasks, magazines, old books, old moccasins, horseshoes,and relics of all kinds. He had no better seat to offer me than a log,but offered it with a graceful unconsciousness that it was anythingless luxurious than an easy chair. Two valuable rifles and a Sharp'srevolver hung on the wall, and the sash and badge of a scout. I couldnot help looking at "Jim" as he stood talking to me. He goes mad withdrink at times, swears fearfully, has an ungovernable temper. He hasformerly led a desperate life, and is at times even now undoubtedly aruffian. There is hardly a fireside in Colorado where fearful storiesof him as an Indian fighter are not told; mothers frighten theirnaughty children by telling them that "Mountain Jim" will get them, anddoubtless his faults are glaring, but he is undoubtedly fascinating,and enjoys a popularity or notoriety which no other person has. Heoffered to be my guide to the Plains when I go away. Lyman asked me ifI should not be afraid of being murdered, but one could not be saferthan with him I have often been told.

The cold was truly awful. I had caught a chill in the morning fromputting on my clothes before they were dry, and the warmth of the smokyden was most agreeable; but we had a fearful ride back in the dusk, agale nearly blowing us off our horses, drifting snow nearly blindingus, and the mercury below zero. I felt as if I were going to be laidup with a severe cold, but the men suggested a trapper's remedy—atumbler of hot water, with a pinch of cayenne pepper in it—whichproved a very rapid cure. They kindly say that if the snow detains mehere they also will remain. They tell me that they were horrified whenI arrived, as they thought that they could not make me comfortable, andthat I had never been used to do anything for myself, and then wecomplimented each other all round. To-morrow, weather permitting, Iset off for a ride of 100 miles, and my next letter will be my lastfrom the Rocky Mountains.

I. L. B.

Letter XVI

A harmonious home—Intense cold—A purple sun—A grim jest—A perilousride—Frozen eyelids—Longmount—The pathless prairie—Hardships ofemigrant life—A trapper's advice—The Little Thompson—Evans and "Jim."

DR. HUGHES'S, LOWER CANYON, COLORADO, December 4.

Once again here, in refined and cultured society, with harmoniousvoices about me, and dear, sweet, loving children whose winning waysmake this cabin a true English home. "England, with all thy faults, Ilove thee still!" I can truly say,

Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see.
My heart, untraveled, fondly turns to thee.

If it swerved a little in the Sandwich Islands, it is true to the Polenow! Surely one advantage of traveling is that, while it removes muchprejudice against foreigners and their customs, it intensifies tenfoldone's appreciation of the good at home, and, above all, of thequietness and purity of English domestic life. These reflections areforced upon me by the sweet child-voices about me, and by the exquisiteconsideration and tenderness which are the atmosphere (some would callit the hothouse atmosphere) of this house. But with the bare, hardlife, and the bare, bleak mountains around, who could find fault witheven a hothouse atmosphere, if it can nourish such a flower of Paradiseas sacred human love?

The mercury is eleven degrees below zero, and I have to keep my ink onthe stove to prevent it from freezing. The cold is intense—a clear,brilliant, stimulating cold, so dry that even in my threadbare flannelriding dress I do not suffer from it. I must now take up my narrativeof the nothings which have all the interest of SOMETHINGS to me. Weall got up before daybreak on Tuesday, and breakfasted at seven. Ihave not seen the dawn for some time, with its amber fires deepeninginto red, and the snow peaks flushing one by one, and it seemed a newmiracle. It was a west wind, and we all thought it promised well. Itook only two pounds of luggage, some raisins, the mailbag, and anadditional blanket under my saddle. I had not been up from the park atsunrise before, and it was quite glorious, the purple depths ofM'Ginn's Gulch, from which at a height of 9,000 feet you look down onthe sunlit park 1,500 feet below, lying in a red haze, with its pearlyneedle-shaped peaks, framed by mountain sides dark with pines—myglorious, solitary, unique mountain home! The purple sun rose infront. Had I known what made it purple I should certainly have gone nofarther. Then clouds, the morning mist as I supposed, liftedthemselves up rose lighted, showing the sun's disc as purple as one ofthe jars in a chemist's window, and having permitted this glimpse oftheir king, came down again as a dense mist, the wind chopped round,and the mist began to freeze hard. Soon Birdie and myself were a massof acicular crystals; it was a true easterly fog. I galloped on,hoping to get through it, unable to see a yard before me; but itthickened, and I was obliged to subside into a jog-trot.

As I rode on, about four miles from the cabin, a human figure, lookinggigantic like the spectre of the Brocken, with long hair white as snow,appeared close to me, and at the same moment there was the flash of apistol close to my ear, and I recognized "Mountain Jim" frozen fromhead to foot, looking a century old with his snowy hair. It was "ugly"altogether certainly, a "desperado's" grim jest, and it was best toaccept it as such, though I had just cause for displeasure. He stormedand scolded, dragged me off the pony—for my hands and feet were numbwith cold—took the bridle, and went off at a rapid stride, so that Ihad to run to keep them in sight in the darkness, for we were off theroad in a thicket of scrub, looking like white branch coral, I knew notwhere. Then we came suddenly on his cabin, and dear old "Ring," whitelike all else; and the "ruffian" insisted on my going in, and he made agood fire, and heated some coffee, raging all the time. He saideverything against my going forward, except that it was dangerous; allhe said came true, and here I am safe! Your letters, however,outweighed everything but danger, and I decided on going on, when hesaid, "I've seen many foolish people, but never one so foolish asyou—you haven't a grain of sense. Why, I, an old mountaineer,wouldn't go down to the Plains to-day." I told him he could not,though he would like it very much, for that he had turned his horsesloose; on which he laughed heartily, and more heartily still at thestories I told him of young Lyman, so that I have still a doubt howmuch of the dark moods I have lately seen was assumed.

He took me back to the track; and the interview which began with apistol shot, ended quite pleasantly. It was an eerie ride, one not tobe forgotten, though there was no danger. I could not recognize anylocalities. Every tree was silvered, and the fir-tree tufts of needleslooked like white chrysanthemums. The snow lay a foot deep in thegulches, with its hard, smooth surface marked by the feet ofinnumerable birds and beasts. Ice bridges had formed across all thestreams, and I crossed them without knowing when. Gulches lookedfathomless abysses, with clouds boiling up out of them, and shaggymountain summits, half seen for a moment through the eddies, as quicklyvanished. Everything looked vast and indefinite. Then a hugecreation, like one of Dore's phantom illustrations, with much breathingof wings, came sailing towards me in a temporary opening in the mist.As with a strange rustle it passed close over my head, I saw, for thefirst time, the great mountain eagle, carrying a good-sized beast inhis talons. It was a noble vision. Then there were ten miles ofmetamorphosed gulches—silent, awful—many ice bridges, then a frozendrizzle, and then the winds changed from east to north-east. Birdiewas covered with exquisite crystals, and her long mane and the longbeard which covers her throat were pure white. I saw that I must giveup crossing the mountains to this place by an unknown trail; and Istruck the old trail to the St. Vrain, which I had never traveledbefore, but which I knew to be more legible than the new one. The foggrew darker and thicker, the day colder and windier, the drifts deeper;but Birdie, whose four cunning feet had carried me 600 miles, and whoin all difficulties proves her value, never flinched or made a falsestep, or gave me reason to be sorry that I had come on.

I got down to the St. Vrain Canyon in good time, and stopped at a housethirteen miles from Longmount to get oats. I was white from head tofoot, and my clothes were frozen stiff. The women gave me the usualinvitation, "Put your feet in the oven"; and I got my clothes thawedand dried, and a delicious meal consisting of a basin of cream andbread. They said it would be worse on the plains, for it was aneasterly storm; but as I was so used to riding, I could get on, so westarted at 2:30. Not far off I met Edwards going up at last to EstesPark, and soon after the snow-storm began in earnest—or rather Ientered the storm, which had been going on there for several hours. Bythat time I had reached the prairie, only eight miles from Longmount,and pushed on. It was simply fearful. It was twilight from the thicksnow, and I faced a furious east wind loaded with fine, hard-frozencrystals, which literally made my face bleed. I could only see a veryshort distance anywhere; the drifts were often two feet deep, and onlynow and then, through the blinding whirl, I caught a glimpse of snowthrough which withered sunflowers did not protrude, and then I knewthat I was on the track. But reaching a wild place, I lost it, andstill cantered on, trusting to the pony's sagacity. It failed foronce, for she took me on a lake and we fell through the ice into thewater, 100 yards from land, and had a hard fight back again. It grewworse and worse. I had wrapped up my face, but the sharp, hard snowbeat on my eyes—the only exposed part—bringing tears into them, whichfroze and closed up my eye-lids at once. You cannot imagine what thatwas.

I had to take off one glove to pick one eye open, for as to the other,the storm beat so savagely against it that I left it frozen, and drewover it the double piece of flannel which protected my face. I couldhardly keep the other open by picking the ice from it constantly withmy numb fingers, in doing which I got the back of my hand slightlyfrostbitten. It was truly awful at the time. I often thought,"Suppose I am going south instead of east? Suppose Birdie should fail?Suppose it should grow quite dark?" I was mountaineer enough to shakethese fears off and keep up my spirits, but I knew how many hadperished on the prairie in similar storms. I calculated that if I didnot reach Longmount in half an hour it would be quite dark, and that Ishould be so frozen or paralyzed with cold that I should fall off.

Not a quarter of an hour after I had wondered how long I could hold onI saw, to my surprise, close to me, half-smothered in snow, thescattered houses and blessed lights of Longmount, and welcome, indeed,its wide, dreary, lifeless, soundless road looked! When I reached thehotel I was so benumbed that I could not get off, and the worthy hostlifted me off and carried me in.

Not expecting any travelers, they had no fire except in the bar-room,so they took me to the stove in their own room, gave me a hot drink andplenty of blankets and in half an hour I was all right and ready for aferocious meal. "If there's a traveler on the prairie to-night, Godhelp him!" the host had said to his wife just before I came in.

I found Evans there, storm stayed, and that—to his great credit at thetime—my money matters were all right. After the sound and refreshingsleep which one gets in this splendid climate, I was ready for an earlystart, but, warned by yesterday's experience, waited till twelve to besure of the weather. The air was intensely clear, and the mercurySEVENTEEN DEGREES BELOW ZERO! The snow sparkled and snapped underone's feet. It was gloriously beautiful! In this climate, if you onlygo out for a short time you do not feel cold even without a hat, or anyadditional wrappings. I bought a cardigan for myself, however, andsome thick socks, got some stout snow-shoes for Birdie's hind feet, hada pleasant talk with some English friends, did some commissions for themen in the park, and hung about waiting for a freight train to breakthe track, but eventually, inspirited by the good news from you, leftLongmount alone, and for the last time. I little thought thatmiserable, broiling day on which I arrived at it with Dr. and Mrs.Hughes, of the glories of which it was the gate, and of the "goodtimes" I should have. Now I am at home in it; every one in it andalong the St. Vrain Canyon addresses me in a friendly way by name; andthe newspapers, with their intolerable personality, have made me and myriding exploits so notorious, that travelers speak courteously to mewhen they meet me on the prairie, doubtless wishing to see what sort ofmonster I am! I have met nothing but civility, both of manner andspeech, except that distraught pistol shot. It looked icily beautiful,the snow so pure and the sky such a bright, sharp blue! The snow wasso deep and level that after a few miles I left the track, and steeringfor Storm Peak, rode sixteen miles over the pathless prairie withoutseeing man, bird, or beast—a solitude awful even in the brightsunshine. The cold, always great, became piteous. I increased thefrostbite of yesterday by exposing my hand in mending the stirrup; andwhen the sun sank in indescribable beauty behind the mountains, andcolor rioted in the sky, I got off and walked the last four miles, andstole in here in the colored twilight without any one seeing me.

The life of which I wrote before is scarcely less severe, thoughlightened by a hope of change, and this weather brings out some specialseverities. The stove has to be in the living-room, the childrencannot go out, and, good and delightful as they are, it is hard forthem to be shut up all day with four adults. It is more of a troublethan you would think for a lady in precarious health that before eachmeal, eggs, butter, milk, preserves, and pickles have to be unfrozen.Unless they are kept on the stove, there is no part of the room inwhich they do not freeze. It is uninteresting down here in the FootHills. I long for the rushing winds, the piled-up peaks, the greatpines, the wild night noises, the poetry and the prose of the free,jolly life of my unrivalled eyrie. I can hardly realize that the riverwhich lies ice bound outside this house is the same which flashesthrough Estes Park, and which I saw snow born on Long's Peak.

Yesterday morning the mercury had disappeared, so it was 20 degreesbelow zero at least. I lay awake from cold all night, but such is thewonderful effect of the climate, that when I got up at half-past fiveto waken the household for my early start, I felt quite refreshed. Webreakfasted on buffalo beef, and I left at eight to ride forty-fivemiles before night, Dr. Hughes and a gentleman who was staying thereconvoying me the first fifteen miles. I did like that ride, racingwith the other riders, careering through the intoxicating air in thatindescribable sunshine, the powdery snow spurned from the horses' feetlike dust! I was soon warm. We stopped at a trapper's ranch to feed,and the old trapper amused me by seeming to think Estes Park almostinaccessible in winter. The distance was greater than I had been told,and he said that I could not get there before eleven at night, and notat all if there was much drift. I wanted the gentlemen to go on withme as far as the Devil's Gate, but they could not because their horseswere tired; and when the trapper heard that he exclaimed, indignantly,"What! that woman going into the mountains alone? She'll lose thetrack or be froze to death!" But when I told him I had ridden thetrail in the storm of Tuesday, and had ridden over 600 miles alone inthe mountains, he treated me with great respect as a fellowmountaineer, and gave me some matches, saying, "You'll have to camp outanyhow; you'd better make a fire than be froze to death." The idea ofmy spending the night in the forest alone, by a fire, struck me as mostgrotesque.

We did not start again till one, and the two gentlemen rode the firsttwo miles with me. On that track, the Little Thompson, there a fullstream, has to be crossed eighteen times, and they had been haulingwood across it, breaking it, and it had broken and refrozen severaltimes, making thick and thin places—indeed, there were crossings whicheven I thought bad, where the ice let us through, and it was hard forthe horses to struggle upon it again; and one of the gentlemen who,though a most accomplished man, was not a horseman, was once or twicein the ludicrous position of hesitating on the bank with an anxiousface, not daring to spur his horse upon the ice. After they left me Ihad eight more crossings, and then a ride of six miles, before Ireached the old trail; but though there were several drifts up to thesaddle, and no one had broken a track, Birdie showed such a pluck, thatinstead of spending the night by a camp-fire, or not getting in tillmidnight, I reached Mr. Nugent's cabin, four miles from Estes Park,only an hour after dark, very cold, and with the pony so tired that shecould hardly put one foot before another. Indeed, I walked the lastthree miles. I saw light through the chinks but, hearing an earnestconversation within, was just about to withdraw, when "Ring" barked,and on his master coming to the door I found that the solitary man wastalking to his dog. He was looking out for me, and had some coffeeready, and a large fire, which were very pleasant; and I was very gladto get the latest news from the park. He said that Evans told him thatit would be most difficult for any one of them to take me down to thePlains, but that he would go, which is a great relief. According tothe Scotch proverb, "Better a finger off than aye wagging," and as Icannot live here (for you would not like the life or climate), thesooner I leave the better.

The solitary ride to Evans's was very eerie. It was very dark, and thenoises were unintelligible. Young Lyman rushed out to take my horse,and the light and warmth within were delightful, but there was astiffness about the new regime. Evans, though steeped in difficulties,was as hearty and generous as ever; but Edwards, who had assumed themanagement, is prudent, if not parsimonious, thinks we wasted thesupplies recklessly, and the limitations as to milk, etc., arepainfully apparent. A young ex-Guardsman has come up with Evans, ofwhom the sanguine creature forms great expectations, to be disappointeddoubtless. In the afternoon of yesterday a gentleman came who Ithought was another stranger, strikingly handsome, well dressed, andbarely forty, with sixteen shining gold curls falling down his collar;he walked in, and it was only after a careful second look that Irecognized in our visitor the redoubtable "desperado." Evanscourteously pressed him to stay and dine with us, and not only did heshow the most singular conversational dexterity in talking with thestranger, who was a very well-informed man, and had seen a great dealof the world, but, though he lives and eats like a savage, his mannersand way of eating were as refined as possible. I notice that Evans isnever quite himself or perfectly comfortable when he is there; and onthe part of the other there is a sort of stiffly-assumed cordiality,significant, I fear of lurking hatred on both sides. I was in thekitchen after dinner making rolled puddings, young Lyman was eating upthe relics as usual, "Jim" was singing one of Moore's melodies, theothers being in the living-room, when Mr. Kavan and Mr. Buchan camefrom "up the creek" to wish me good-bye. They said it was not half somuch like home now, and recalled the "good time" we had had for threeweeks. Lyman having lost the ow, we have no milk. No one makes bread;they dry the venison into chips, and getting the meals at all seems awork of toil and difficulty, instead of the pleasure it used to be tous. Evans, since tea, has told me all his troubles and worries. He isa kind, generous, whole-hearted, unsuspicious man, a worse enemy tohimself, I believe, than to any other; but I feel sadly that the futureof a man who has not stronger principles than he has must be at thebest very insecure.

I. L. B.

Letter XVII

Woman's mission—The last morning—Crossing the St. Vrain—Miller—TheSt. Vrain again—Crossing the prairie—"Jim's" dream—"Keepingstrangers"—The inn kitchen—A reputed child-eater—Notoriety—A quietdance—"Jim's" resolve—The frost-fall—An unfortunate introduction.

CHEYENNE, WYOMING, December 12.

The last evening came. I did not wish to realize it, as I looked atthe snow-peaks glistening in the moonlight. No woman will be seen inthe park till next May. Young Lyman talked in a "hifalutin" style, butwith some truth in it, of the influence of a woman's presence, how"low, mean, vulgar talk" had died out on my return, how they had "allpulled themselves up," and how Mr. Kavan and Mr. Buchan had said theywould like always to be as quiet and gentlemanly as when a lady waswith them. "By May," he said, "we shall be little better than brutes,in our manners at least." I have seen a great deal of the roughestclass of men both on sea and land during the last two years, and themore important I think the "mission" of every quiet, refined,self-respecting woman—the more mistaken I think those who wouldforfeit it by noisy self-assertion, masculinity, or fastness. In allthis wild West the influence of woman is second only in its benefits tothe influence of religion, and where the last unhappily does not existthe first continually exerts its restraining power. The last morningcame. I cleaned up my room and sat at the window watching the red andgold of one of the most glorious of winter sunrises, and the slowlighting-up of one peak after another. I have written that thisscenery is not lovable, but I love it.

I left on Birdie at 11 o'clock, Evans riding with me as far as Mr.Nugent's. He was telling me so many things, that at the top of thehill I forgot to turn round and take a last look at my colossal,resplendent, lonely, sunlit den, but it was needless, for I carry itaway with me. I should not have been able to leave if Mr. Nugent hadnot offered his services. His chivalry to women is so well known, thatEvans said I could be safer and better cared for with no one. Headded, "His heart is good and kind, as kind a heart as ever beat. He'sa great enemy of his own, but he's been living pretty quietly for thelast four years." At the door of his den I took leave of Birdie, whohad been my faithful companion for more than 700 miles of traveling,and of Evans, who had been uniformly kind to me and just in all hisdealings, even to paying to me at that moment the very last dollar heowed me. May God bless him and his! He was obliged to return before Icould get off, and as he commended me to Mr. Nugent's care, the two menshook hands kindly.[21]

[21]Some months later "Mountain Jim" fell by Evans's hand, shot fromEvans's doorstep while riding past his cabin. The story of theprevious weeks is dark, sad, and evil. Of the five differing versionswhich have been written to me of the act itself and its immediatecauses, it is best to give none. The tragedy is too painful to dwellupon. "Jim" lived long enough to give his own statement, and to appealto the judgment of God, but died in low delirium before the casereached a human tribunal.

Rich spoils of beavers' skins were lying on the cabin floor, and thetrapper took the finest, a mouse-colored kitten beaver's skin, andpresented it to me. I hired his beautiful Arab mare, whose springystep and long easy stride was a relief after Birdie's short sturdygait. We had a very pleasant ride, and I seldom had to walk. We tookneither of the trails, but cut right through the forest to a placewhere, through an opening in the Foot Hills, the Plains stretched tothe horizon covered with snow, the surface of which, having melted andfrozen, reflected as water would the pure blue of the sky, presenting acomplete optical illusion. It required my knowledge of fact to assureme that I was not looking at the ocean. "Jim" shortened the way byrepeating a great deal of poetry, and by earnest, reasonableconversation, so that I was quite surprised when it grew dark. He toldme that he never lay down to sleep without prayer—prayer chiefly thatGod would give him a happy death. He had previously promised that hewould not hurry or scold, but "fyking" had not been included in thearrangement, and when in the early darkness we reached the steep hill,at whose foot the rapid deep St. Vrain flows, he "fyked" unreasonablyabout me, the mare, and the crossing generally, and seemed to think Icould not get through, for the ice had been cut with an axe, and wecould not see whether "glaze" had formed since or not.

I was to have slept at the house of a woman farther down the canyon,who never ceases talking, but Miller, the young man whose attractivehouse and admirable habits I have mentioned before, came out and saidhis house was "now fixed for ladies," so we stayed there, and I was"made as comfortable" as could be. His house is a model. He cleanseverything as soon as it is used, so nothing is ever dirty, and hisstove and cooking gear in their bright parts look like polished silver.It was amusing to hear the two men talk like two women about variousways of making bread and biscuits, one even writing out a recipe forthe other. It was almost grievous that a solitary man should have thepower of making a house so comfortable! They heated a stone for myfeet, warmed a blanket for me to sleep in, and put logs enough on thefire to burn all night, for the mercury was eleven below zero. Thestars were intensely bright, and a well-defined auroral arch, throwingoff fantastic coruscations, lighted the whole northern sky. Yet I wasonly in the Foot Hills, and Long's glorious Peak was not to be seen.Miller had all his things "washed up" and his "pots and pans" cleanedin ten minutes after supper, and then had the whole evening in which tosmoke and enjoy himself—a poor woman would probably have been "fussinground" till 10 o'clock about the same work. Besides Ring there wasanother gigantic dog craving for notice, and two large cats, which, thewhole evening, were on their master's knee. Cold as the night was, thehouse was chinked, and the rooms felt quite warm. I even missed thefree currents of air which I had been used to! This was my lastevening in what may be called a mountainous region.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was well risen, we left for ourjourney of 30 miles, which had to be done nearly at a foot's pace,owing to one horse being encumbered with my luggage. I did not wish torealize that it was my last ride, and my last association with any ofthe men of the mountains whom I had learned to trust, and in somerespects to admire. No more hunters' tales told while the pine knotscrack and blaze; no more thrilling narratives of adventures withIndians and bears; and never again shall I hear that strange talk ofNature and her doings which is the speech of those who live with herand her alone. Already the dismalness of a level land comes over me.The canyon of the St. Vrain was in all its glory of color, but we had aremarkably ugly crossing of that brilliant river, which was frozen allover, except an unpleasant gap of about two feet in the middle. Mr.Nugent had to drive the frightened horses through, while I, havingcrossed on some logs lower down, had to catch them on the other side asthey plunged to shore trembling with fear. Then we emerged on the vastexpanse of the glittering Plains, and a sudden sweep of wind made thecold so intolerable that I had to go into a house to get warm. Thiswas the last house we saw till we reached our destination that night.I never saw the mountain range look so beautiful—uplifted in everyshade of transparent blue, till the sublimity of Long's Peak, and thelofty crest of Storm Peak, bore only unsullied snow against the sky.Peaks gleamed in living light; canyons lay in depths of purple shade;100 miles away Pike's Peak rose a lump of blue, and over all, throughthat glorious afternoon, a veil of blue spiritualized without dimmingthe outlines of that most glorious range, making it look like thedreamed-of mountains of "the land which is very far off," till atsunset it stood out sharp in glories of violet and opal, and the wholehorizon up to a great height was suffused with the deep rose and pureorange of the afterglow. It seemed all dream-like as we passed throughthe sunlit solitude, on the right the prairie waves lessening towardsthe far horizon, while on the left they broke in great snowy surgesagainst the Rocky Mountains. All that day we neither saw man, beast,nor bird. "Jim" was silent mostly. Like all true children of themountains, he pined even when temporarily absent from them.

At sunset we reached a cluster of houses called Namaqua, where, to mydismay, I heard that there was to be a dance at the one little inn towhich we were going at St. Louis. I pictured to myself no privacy, nopeace, no sleep, drinking, low sounds, and worse than all, "Jim"getting into a quarrel and using his pistols. He was uncomfortableabout it for another reason. He said he had dreamt the night beforethat there was to be a dance, and that he had to shoot a man for making"an unpleasant remark."

For the last three miles which we accomplished after sunset the coldwas most severe, but nothing could exceed the beauty of the afterglow,and the strange look of the rolling plains of snow beneath it. When wegot to the queer little place where they "keep strangers" at St. Louis,they were very civil, and said that after supper we could have thekitchen to ourselves. I found a large, prononcee, competent, bustlingwidow, hugely stout, able to manage all men and everything else, and avery florid sister like herself, top heavy with hair. There werebesides two naughty children in the kitchen, who cried incessantly, andkept opening and shutting the door. There was no place to sit down buta wooden chair by the side of the kitchen stove, at which supper wasbeing cooked for ten men. The bustle and clatter were indescribable,and the landlady asked innumerable questions, and seemed to fill thewhole room. The only expedient for me for the night was to sleep on ashake-down in a very small room occupied by the two women and thechildren, and even this was not available till midnight, when the danceterminated; and there was no place in which to wash except a bowl inthe kitchen. I sat by the stove till supper, wearying of the noise andbustle after the quiet of Estes Park.

The landlady asked, with great eagerness, who the gentleman was who waswith me, and said that the men outside were saying that they were surethat it was "Rocky Mountain Jim," but she was sure it was not. When Itold her that the men were right, she exclaimed, "Do tell! I want toknow! that quiet, kind gentleman!" and she said she used to frightenher children when they were naughty by telling them that "he would getthem, for he came down from the mountains every week, and took back achild with him to eat!" She was as proud of having him in her house asif he had been the President, and I gained a reflected importance! Allthe men in the settlement assembled in the front room, hoping he wouldgo and smoke there, and when he remained in the kitchen they came roundthe window and into the doorway to look at him. The children got onhis knee, and, to my great relief, he kept them good and quiet, and letthem play with his curls, to the great delight of the two women, whonever took their eyes off him. At last the bad-smelling supper wasserved, and ten silent men came in and gobbled it up, staring steadilyat "Jim" as they gobbled. Afterwards, there seemed no hope of quiet,so we went to the post-office, and while waiting for stamps were showninto the prettiest and most ladylike-looking room I have seen in theWest, created by a pretty and refined-looking woman. She made anopportunity for asking me if it were true that the gentleman with mewas "Mountain Jim," and added that so very gentlemanly a person couldnot be guilty of the misdeeds attributed to him.

When we returned, the kitchen was much quieter. It was cleared byeight, as the landlady promised; we had it to ourselves till twelve,and could scarcely hear the music. It was a most respectable dance, afortnightly gathering got up by the neighboring settlers, most of themyoung married people, and there was no drinking at all. I wrote to youfor some time, while Mr. Nugent copied for himself the poems "In theGlen" and the latter half of "The River without a Bridge," which herecited with deep feeling. It was altogether very quiet and peaceful.He repeated to me several poems of great merit which he had composed,and told me much more about his life. I knew that no one else could orwould speak to him as I could, and for the last time I urged upon himthe necessity of a reformation in his life, beginning with the givingup of whisky, going so far as to tell him that I despised a man of hisintellect for being a slave to such a vice. "Too late! too late!" healways answered, "for such a change." Ay, TOO LATE. He shed tearsquietly. "It might have been once," he said. Ay, MIGHT have been. Hehas excellent sense for every one but himself, and, as I have seen himwith a single exception, a gentleness, propriety, and consideratenessof manner surprising in any man, but especially so in a man associatingonly with the rough men of the West. As I looked at him, I felt a pitysuch as I never before felt for a human being.

My thought at the moment was, Will not our Father in heaven, "whospared not His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all," be far morepitiful? For the time a desire for self-respect, better aspirations,and even hope itself, entered his dark life; and he said, suddenly,that he had made up his mind to give up whisky and his reputation as adesperado. But it is "too late." A little before twelve the dance wasover, and I got to the crowded little bedroom, which only allowed ofone person standing in it at a time, to sleep soundly and dream of"ninety-and-nine just persons who need no repentance." The landladywas quite taken up with her "distinguished guest." "That kind, quietgentleman, Mountain Jim! Well, I never! he must be a very good man!"

Yesterday morning the mercury was 20 degrees below zero. I think Inever saw such a brilliant atmosphere. That curious phenomenon calledfrost-fall was occurring, in which, whatever moisture may exist in theair, somehow aggregates into feathers and fern leaves, the loveliest ofcreations, only seen in rarefied air and intense cold. One breath andthey vanish. The air was filled with diamond sparks quite intangible.They seemed just glitter and no more. It was still and cloudless, andthe shapes of violet mountains were softened by a veil of the tenderestblue. When the Greeley stage wagon came up, Mr. Fodder, whom I met atLower Canyon, was on it. He had expressed a great wish to go to EstesPark, and to hunt with "Mountain Jim," if it would be safe to do thelatter. He was now dressed in the extreme of English dandyism, andwhen I introduced them, he put out a small hand cased in aperfectly-fitting lemon-colored kid glove.[22] As the trapper stoodthere in his grotesque rags and odds and ends of apparel, hisgentlemanliness of deportment brought into relief the innate vulgarityof a rich parvenu. Mr. Fodder rattled so amusingly as we drove awaythat I never realized that my Rocky Mountain life was at an end, noteven when I saw "Mountain Jim," with his golden hair yellow in thesunshine, slowly leading the beautiful mare over the snowy Plains backto Estes Park, equipped with the saddle on which I had ridden 800 miles!

[22] This was a truly unfortunate introduction. It was the first linkin the chain of circumstances which brought about Mr. Nugent's untimelyend, and it was at this person's instigation (when overcome by fear)that Evans fired the shot which proved fatal.

A drive of several hours over the Plains brought us to Greeley, and afew hours later, in the far blue distance, the Rocky Mountains, and allthat they enclose, went down below the prairie sea.

I. L. B.

(Editor: Classroom Currency)