Mr. Dide, His Vacation in Colorado

CHAPTER IV.

THROUGH THE SAGUACHE RANGE.

Much of the way from Granite to Leadville lies close to the Arkansas, and with the level of it, the river being but a few feet below the road. The Major and I conclude to occupy the rear platform and encounter an elderly lady on a camp-stool in possession of the car door. She is here evidently with a view to the scenery. As we squeeze past, we are regaled with an odor of rose leaves, suggestive of old-fashioned bureaus with obstinate drawers, catnip tea and grandmotherly tenderness. The velocity of the railroad train is not to be compared to the speed with which the perfume flashes one back through the decades, to the hard times, and I detect a sigh from the Major as he seats himself upon the car step.

"What are you sighing for, Major?"

With a hasty glance toward the car door: "For the happy times of nearly half a century ago."

"And the rose leaves——"

"Aha!" with a cheerful smile, "you caught the fragrance too, did you, my boy?"

Except for the rumble of the car wheels, silence reigned for five minutes; the Major's meditations were finally interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Dide, camp-stool in hand. The new arrival had just taken his seat on the side next the Major when the old lady exclaimed in a shrill treble:

"Land sakes! I believe in my heart that crick is runnin' up hill."

Certainly from our level, and running in an opposite direction, the current had that appearance when looked at casually.

Mr. Dide turned toward the lady, stared, and addressed her:

"Begpahdon! But weally that is not phenomenal."

"Eh?"

"It is not unusual foah watah to wun up hill."

"Where was you born and bred, young man?"

"New Yauk."

They were both serious, the old lady, with her head thrown a little forward and inclining to one side, gazing at him over her glasses.

"What's your business?"

"I am a gentleman of lesyah, madam," and for the first time something like a smile hovered about the mouth of Mr. Dide.

"Evidently you was brought up that way—you ain't married, surely?" with a manner implying that though the world were full of feminine fools, he had not discovered one foolish enough to enter into the marriage relation with him. Mr. Dide seemed discomfited, but rallied in a moment.

"Begpahdon! but you know the earth is not a spheah but a spheaoid, flattened at the poles, and the equatah is a dozen miles hiah than the surface at the poles, and that some of the pwincipal wivahs flow toward the equatah——"

"See here, young man, I don't know as I just rightly understand what you're talkin' about, and I don't think you do yourself. Seems to me you must be one of them chaps that believes his grandfather was a monkey, and lookin' at you I don't know as you're to blame. I've raised nine children, six boys and three girls, all married and settled down 'cept Hannah—she's next to the baby, and I don't know as she ever will; and if I'd had one like you, indeed I'm afraid I'd a-flew into the face of natur and set on him when a baby. Where's your mother? you'd better go to her and let her learn you not to talk to an old woman like me as if I was a fool—there now!"

"Begpahdon, but——"

"Oh, git away with your begp-a-h-don, as you call it——"

"But, my deah madam——"

"But me no buts, and don't dear madam me. I'll tell my Joshua and he'll shake that glass out of your eye for insultin' his mother, he will."

Either the condition of Mr. Dide reflected in the old lady's mind with his eyeglass gone, or his general demoralization under the hands of Joshua, mitigated her indignation; she laughed as she bridled.

"Weally, madam," and Mr. Dide arose, held on to the guard rail with one hand while he removed his hat with the other, and with a manner that went far toward making his peace, continued: "I should nevah faugive myself if I went away leaving you with the impwession that I intended an insult—believe me, I am incapable."

"Well—don't you try to make anybody believe again that water runs up hill."

"I will not, madam, I assauh you."

"And don't talk as if you was swearin' every time you say madam. Why don't you say ma'am like a Christian?"

"I will mahm, with plesyah."

"That's right. Set down now, I want to see out. I think somethin' might be made out of you with a little trainin', though mebbe it's too late; 'as the twig is bent the tree's inclined,' you know. What do you carry that little umbrill for, that thing you've got in your hand—don't you know the name of it?"

"Ah, weally—to wahd off the sun and the wain."

"Land sakes—mebbe you think you're sugar and'll melt; and you part your hair in the middle like a gal; I see it when you had your hat off."

"Weally—please excuse me, I would like to pass in."

"Set right down and don't let me drive you away. I've taken an interest in you; where's your mother?"

"Weally, ma—mahm—she has been dead many yeahs—I can just wemember her."

"I know'd it, and you've just been left to grow up of your own accord; been to college of course. 'Squire Dodd he let his Jake go off to college, and he staid just one year and come back with one of them glasses and lost it next day; the ole 'squire kep' him home after that, and set him to maulin' rails in the patch down by the hemlock p'int——"

For half an hour the dear old soul held the disconsolate gentleman in durance. I dared not look at the Major but kept my eyes fixed on the landscape, without seeing any of it.

Reaching Leadville, we searched in vain for the Deacon; his lady friends were also absent, and the Major remarked:

"The Deacon evidently is one point ahead in the game. If he does not turn up in the morning we shall be obliged to abandon him."

Leadville, that has added so many millions to the wealth of the world, is more dignified than half a dozen years ago; there is less of the revolver and saloon and a little more of the church and the Sabbath-school; no longer a mining camp, but a city with only a tithe of its resources developed.

It reposes very quietly this Sabbath morning under the bright sun. Turning from the range at the north with its snow-capped peaks and looking down the almost deserted avenue, I am reminded of another Sunday morning—and it seems only a little while ago—when the same street was wont to be alive with humanity. Coming out of an adjacent saloon a couple of young men faced each other, blear-eyed and dishevelled; they had plainly been making a night of it. Each stood with his hand on his hip, while epithets, the most choice in the camp vocabulary, flew thick and furious. It might be dangerous or not; perhaps not. But the innocent third party running away or seeking shelter at the side might be in peril. I took up a vibrating station, so to speak, immediately in the rear of one of the would-be murderers, and awaited the opening. It did not come, but ended in froth and the appearance of an autocrat with a star on his breast and a club in his hand. He gathered in the bad men and was about to possess himself of the undersigned, when I felt compelled to explain the situation. He complimented me by saying: "Your head's level," and I was suffered to depart.

From the carbonate metropolis to the tunnel through the Saguache Range the distance by rail is perhaps seventeen miles, the difference in elevation about thirteen hundred feet. To make this distance one can hardly realize that one is ascending, the grade is so light, winding on and about the mountain sides. Lake Valley, with its crooked band of water here and there widening into silvery pools, and the gold and green of its meadow-like spots, seems to be silently drifting down and away. At the foot lies the city we have just left, and beyond is the Mosquito Range. In following the tortuous line the grand peaks seem to change from one side of you to the other, all the motion being with them.

Mount Massive gives you the aptness of its name. You feel its magnificence as you approach, and that it may be the glorious court of blue-eyed Athena at whose vestibule you stand wonderingly, and whence she issues to kiss the petals of the wild flowers and endow the earth with health and beauty. All about you are the pines, with here and there a patch of aspens, their whitened trunks set in banks of larkspur empurpling the sloping mountain sides. Over deep gorges spanned by threadlike trestle-work, you feel awed at the audacity that planned and executed the way into this solitude. High above the utmost peak of the bulky mass, a spot no larger than your hand is poised in ether, or moving, passes between you and the sun, and you think perhaps of what Tennyson says:

"He clasps the crag with hooked hands,
Close to the sun in lonely lands;
Ringed with the azure world he stands:
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls."

Or as Campbell puts it:

"And stood at pleasure, 'neath heavens zenith, like
A lamp suspended from its azure dome,
Then downward, faster than a falling star,
He neared the earth, until his shape distinct
Was blackly shadowed on the sunny ground."

Or older still, as we find it in the Iliad:

"So the strong eagle from his airy height,
Who marks the swans' or cranes' embodied flight
Stoops down impetuous while they light for food
And, stooping, darkens with his wings the flood."

The Major thought he would give Campbell the benefit of his vote, though the old Greek tells us the bird was a robber in his day as he is in ours.

The shriek of the whistle echoes and re-echoes through the impressive silence; it startles you, and you feel as if warned in a weird way by the unseen spirits of these wilds, that you are an intruder. Suddenly you are swept from the bright sunlight, the lofty mountains and modest wild flowers into utter darkness. Your dream of the wise goddess may not be all a dream. You are being hurled, in her anger, from the heavenly heights to the depths of Erebus. Looking out, you see mysterious shadows moving with lights through clouds of smoke, and the lights burn dim and red. There is comfort only in the reflection that mortals have preceded us, and that we are merely in Hagerman Tunnel[1] and not knocking at the gates of sheol.

In the ghostly light of the car lamp I discover the venerable incubus of Mr. Dide, and inquire what she thinks.

"Land sakes! it's flyin' in the face of the Almighty. I suppose it's all right, but I kind o' wish I was well out of it and with Joshua. I don't know but I was a little hard on that young man with the umbrill."

The Major, overhearing the wail, immediately entered upon the office of comforter, and had but fairly begun when, swish! and we were in the broad daylight once again, on the western slope of the Saguache Range.

There is a beautiful picture to the right; a few miles away, down the mountain side, you catch a view of a little lake, bordered by a strip of level ground carpeted in gold; back of this grow the pines, reaching on and up to the summits of their homes, made dark and green; and away beyond, delicately toned by the ever-present gray mist, stands a lofty mountain range. The engineer is kindly and pauses here, that you may have a glimpse of the enchanting retreat, over the memory of which you may dream when you are back in the turmoil, and that will make you sigh for the coming summer.

The character of the country through which we are now winding our way down toward the valley is more rugged than on the eastern side. The thickly wooded slopes give place to more frequent piles of granite, massive and gray. We come suddenly upon a little park and find the haymakers busy there, with a team of oxen, a motive power already growing quite novel; a little further over, where the gorge widens, affording a few acres of comparatively level ground, we find the white tents of the campers-out. There is a newness about the cotton habitations that suggests experiment. There are women in sun-bonnets and calico gowns and a ruddiness of complexion no city air can paint. Children with brown, bare legs scratched by the briars, their cheeks tanned to a russet that affords a contrast to the whiteness of their milk teeth. And these jolly little fellows always greet you with a broad smile and a hurrah that is without feebleness or fever. Young men in long rubber boots, helmet hats decorated with nondescript flies and sporting an endless variety of trout rods. All pause to look at the train, an act to which they would rarely condescend at home. But this one, maybe, brings accessions to their ranks from the outside world, or a newspaper, and serves as a link between what we call civilization and the glorious freedom of the wilderness. A little further on, standing upon the bank of a still reach, we encounter a tall "lone fisherman," dressed in overalls, a waistcoat ragged at the back, an old white felt hat with the battered brim thrown up from his face and drooping behind; in his hand a long cane pole which it makes one's arms ache to look at. But he will come in to-night with that canvas bag swung from his shoulder well filled with trout, and prove to you that the fishing is good. Artificial flies are not indispensable with him; grasshoppers when he can get them, bugs, grubs, a bit of beef or a strip from the belly of his first trophy of the day, will serve his purpose; he is "after meat" and gets it. What could he do with a fly and that walking-beam?

We reach a cañon whose sides at its mouth are clothed with pines and aspens; the rocks have changed from the granite to red sandstone and great mountains made up of boulders and red clay. The latter have been built here by the waters away back in the untold centuries, and of whose abundance the beautiful crystal stream now brawling over its pebbled bed is but a thread. As the once mighty force has cut its way through all impediments and dwindled century by century to a narrower channel, it has left exposed the great red cliffs; falling still farther, soil has accumulated on the more gentle slopes and has given these Titanic piles broad bases of green interspersed with wild flowers, and the delicate feathers of the clematis here and there twine among the willows. The winds and the rains have bestowed their aid and carved the red mass into castles, buttressed and pinnacled. And so, having traversed one of the grandest gorges in the State and enjoyed a fair view of some of the loftiest mountain peaks and ranges, we slow up in the beautiful valley of the Roaring Fork. The Major declared it was the most delightful ride he had ever taken, and was disposed to enthusiasm.

CHAPTER V.

JOSHUA.

While awaiting the departure of the train from Aspen Junction to Glenwood Springs, one of the dwellers in the neighborhood came up with a string of beautiful trout, the largest of which weighed two pounds. Where did he catch them?

"Why, right over yonder in the Roaring Fork; lots of 'em; a fellow got one the other day that weighed three pounds."

The manner of the informant defied contradiction or doubt.

"Not improbable, my friend. I have landed more than one five-pounder from that same water," said the Major.

"See here, mister, if I'd a-know'd you was goin' to chip in I'd a-made it bigger—the last man hain't no show, that's a fact."

"Honor bright, my friend; I camped here nineteen years ago this summer; five-pound trout were no rarity then."

The Major's tones carried conviction with them, and, mollified, the native admitted he had "heard of bigger ones up the fork."

The ride of twenty-five miles to Glenwood Springs completed our trip by rail. The next business was to look up a man with a team and wagon. We found him lingering over some old circus posters on a bill-board down a side street, which he seemed reluctant to abandon. He had been recommended to us as a good cook, possessed of a complete camp outfit, and to whom the whole country was an open book.

Mr. Miles was a blue-eyed man of forty, perhaps, with a hint of gray hairs about his temples, broad-shouldered and wearing a pleasant smile. He had been to Trapper's Lake times without number, but he "couldn't get a wagon over the trail."

"If you want to go by wagon, the best way is round by Meeker, and up the White River; it's a hundred and thirty miles, mebbe, while it's only about a day's ride by the trail."

"By Meeker," was our route; we had come to look at the White River Valley; we might return to Glenwood by the trail.

"Meeker it is; then four dollars a day and you find the grub and your own saddle-horses, or ride in the waggin."

After assuring us that he would be back in an hour with "everything ready to roll out for Newcastle," where we were to stop the first night, Mr. Miles took his departure, singing in a delightful tenor, "The sweet by-and-by."

Two hours elapsed and Mr. Miles had failed to put in his appearance. We set out to hunt him and found his cabin. It was a very neat cabin of logs, hewed to the line, and a rustic porch covered with a wild clematis vine made the place inviting on a warm day. A couple of women in calico gowns and sun-bonnets sat outside picking wild hops from a vine which they had cut off at the roots and brought in bodily. A youngster in slips, regardless of the conventionalities of good society, was standing on his head in the shade of the chimney out of sight of the occupants of the porch. The ground being sandy our approach was unheeded by the women. The hands of one were toil-worn, of the other slender and shapely, but browned by the sun. The Major was about to speak but was forestalled by the imp from the chimney appearing, right side up, with the announcement:

"G'amma! here's men!"

The old lady's face, from her position, was first to be seen, and revealed Mr. Dide's monitress. The other was that of a young woman of twenty, perhaps. As the child spoke the latter raised her hands to the sun-bonnet, and turning toward us, disclosed a very pleasant face with wonderful brown eyes.

"Land sakes! if it ain't you; come in and set down—Hannah, git some cheers."

The Major declined, as we were in a hurry, and inquired for Mr. Miles.

"That's my Joshua, certain. He's gone to hunt his horses; he's been hired to go out campin' with some tenderfeet, and they are out grazin'; but do set down; this is my daughter Hannah," as the young woman returned with the chairs, which she burnished with her apron, though they were entirely innocent of dust.

The Major felt obliged to repeat his excuse; then pleasantly:

"I guess we are the tenderfeet——"

"Now, you don't say!—Land sakes—but you won't mind an old woman's nonsense, will you? Set down, do; Joshua'll be here by-'m-by, he greased his waggin just before he went; don't mind the muss—me and Hannah's been savin' these hops, they're better'n any store truck; they're good for yeast; I never could 'bide salt risin' anyway, and for neuralgie, I've suffered with that some, so's Joshua, seems it's in the altitude, that's what the doctors call it, and to my mind there's nothing like a hop piller. Wish you'd set awhile."

The Major assured the good soul that we should be delighted, but really we were anxious to start and had a multitude of trifles to look after. Would she be kind enough to request Joshua not to delay longer than was necessary? and we bowed ourselves away.

The sun went down and Joshua did not appear. At ten o'clock we went to bed with the conviction that we should have to abandon the namesake of the potent commander. About the time we were fairly asleep, he came and assured us, through the door, that he would "be on hand at eight o'clock, sure, with everything ready." That the horses had "strayed and were not to be found until after dark." We were prompt at the appointed time and waited until nine. The Major was again about to give him up, when he came around with a pair of stout-looking mares and an empty lumber wagon, and announced that he must "go and hunt up an extra spring seat," as we had concluded not to take saddle-horses. He came back in about half an hour, with a seat lying in the wagon, and said he had "a mind" to go after his bedding. The Major suggested that he hurry.

"Oh, I'll be round, you bet."

At ten o'clock he returned with a roll of blankets and we inquired after his camp outfit.

"By the great horn spoon—if I didn't forget all about it; just hold on a minute," and he drove off again. In the course of another half hour he returned with a frying-pan and a broken skillet. We inquired for the plates, cups, knives and other articles supposed to be convenient in camp, including the coffee-pot.

"Well, I lent my coffee-pot to a feller who's gone prospectin' and I don't think he'll be back inside of a week—you've got some canned beans and such like—we can use the cans for coffee, and have a new one every day, and I'm out of plates and cups just now, though if I'd a-knowed it I might 'a borrowed some of Jake."

The Major complimented him on this evidence of cleanliness and economy, and then went off and purchased the necessary tinware and cutlery. Joshua packed everything snugly and undertook to adjust the borrowed wagon seat. It was found to be too short.

"Well, I swan! but I'll git a seat if I have to steal it—just hold on a minute."

"I think, Mr. Miles," said the Major, "as it is near noon, you'd better drive home and get your dinner and the seat, and call for us in an hour."

"All right, I'll be round on time—hannup, Woman, get on, Baby—we're not goin' to camp here."

"'There's a land that is fairer than day,
   And by faith we can see it afar,
For the Father waits over the way,
   To prepare us a dwelling place thar,

In the sweet by-and-by.'"

"That man and his song match well," said the Major, as Joshua disappeared around the corner and the refrain died away, "'my dukedom to a beggarly denier' he does not get back until too late in the day to start. I wonder if he is not trying to make an extra day in his count?"

At two o'clock he returned, but had not succeeded in obtaining a seat. He stood before the Major with eyes cast down and his forefinger on his chin, evidently in deep communion with himself.

"I wonder, now, where I can get a seat—lemme see—Bowers' got a waggin same as mine, but he started yesterday with a load to Newcastle. Ben Soggs-no! his is broke. Lemme see—Pat McGinnis—no, he's usin' his every day——"

"Suppose you buy one—is there not a wagon shop in the city?" said the Major.

"Well, I swan! I hadn't thought of that—just hold on a minute."

In the course of half an hour he returned with the announcement that he had found a seat, but the man wanted five dollars and a half, "second hand, and that's a dollar'n a half more'n it's worth, and——."

"Well, get it, we'll stand the dollar and a half."

"All right—just hold on a minute."

It was three o'clock in the afternoon when we started. We were blessed with several friends in Glenwood; they manifested much interest in our preparations for departure, and, as they had a number of resident acquaintances, the sidewalk was well peopled by the time we climbed into the wagon. Looking over that sea of faces, as I remember it now, every one was lighted up with a broad smile, which resolved itself into a laugh, with a hearty good-by and wishes for luck, together with the request that we "leave some of the game on the White," and would "not kill it all."

We smiled in return, and I felt that I should be happy if Mr. Miles' shoulders were not so broad and I had his head in chancery.

"Where do you propose camping to-night, Mr. Miles?" inquired the Major as we reached the bridge across the Grand River.

"Lemme see—it's fifteen miles to Newcastle, pretty good road, we can make that in three hours with the load we've got; then it's about fourteen miles to Rifle Creek, but there's muskeeters. We might stop at Ferguson's, that's about ten miles beyond Newcastle; that's a good place."

"But it will be quite dark by that time."

"Yes, that's a fact, it will be quite dark by that time."

"Well, it is not very pleasant to make camp in the dark."

"No, that's a fact; you're right about that—'tain't pleasant to make camp in the dark."

"What will you do?"

"Lemme see—we was goin' to stop at Newcastle, wasn't we? that's a good place."

"To camp, do you mean?"

"Yes, good place to camp, or there's a good hotel—we might stop at the hotel over night and take a fresh start in the mornin'."

"How far is it from Newcastle to Meeker?"

"Fifty-five miles,—hannup, Woman! we won't camp here!"

"That's rather a long drive for one day?"

"You're right, it is—but we can make it, with the load we've got—Baby! come out o' that!"

"It would be better not to try."

"You're right—we might camp at Morgan's, t'other side of the Divide, if you want to, that's more'n half way."

"Very well, we'll make Newcastle to-night, Morgan's to-morrow night, and reach Meeker the next day—say at what hour?"

"Oh, anywhere before dark, easy."

"Well, we'll see if you can make it."

"Oh, I'll make it, or break a trace!"

The "pretty good road" between Glenwood and Newcastle had recently been traversed by a herd of cattle and seemed the paradise of loose stones. The Grand was muddy, as it frequently is, from the mining on the Blue River and a recent storm. But there is enough beauty in the scenery to compensate one for the roughness of the road, which Joshua seemed to make more rugged by hitting all the rocks in the way.

When we reached Newcastle, Joshua drove up to the hotel and the landlord put in an appearance.

"Why do you stop here, Mr. Miles?" inquired the Major.

"This is a good place to stop, and I thought you said you'd stop here to-night and take a fresh start in the mornin'?"

"We purpose to have an outing, Mr. Miles, and although the hotel may be excellent, we will go into camp just below here on Elk Creek."

There was a decisiveness about the Major's tones not to be misunderstood. Mr. Miles turned around to get a better view.

"All right, just as you say—hannup, Woman! Baby!"

He kept silent until we reached the creek, when I made a remark about its beauty, then Joshua broke out:

"Fresh from the throne of glory
Bright in its crystal stream."

At the first verse the sternness vanished from the Major's face; he could not resist the inclination to laugh; the laugh was contagious; Joshua turned in his seat with a look of inquiry, and halting in his song, joined us.

"How d'you know the name of the creek, Major?"

"I have been here before, Mr. Miles."

"Oh! How long you lived in this country, Major?"

"Thirty years, next spring."

"No? Then you're a mossback sure enough——

'Tell me the old, old story,
Of unseen things above'".

"Are you a member of the church, Mr. Miles?"

"Why, I ain't never just professed, exactly—what makes you ask that?"

"Your familiarity with the Gospel hymns."

"Mebbe you don't like 'em——"

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Miles—I not only like them, but your singing."

"Oh, give us a rest, Major—you can't blame me for takin' you for tenderfeet with them knee-breeches."

"What did you pay for this wagon-seat, Mr. Miles?"

"Four dollars,—honest Injun."

"I think we understand each other, Mr. Miles?"

"George Washington and his hatchet—I've felt for some time's if I wanted to kick myself for bein' a fool."

The footing being established, Joshua drew up in a grassy spot near some scrub oaks.

"Just rest easy, gentlemen, till I git this team unhitched, and I'll look after the supper, and put up the tent while you're eatin' it."

"We have only a fly, and will not need that to night."

"That's an offset to the knee-breeches; if I'd only knowed it! You don't care for a tent, even?

'The proper study of mankind is man'".

I suggested to the Major that he try the creek,—perhaps he could get a mess of trout for breakfast. He adopted the suggestion, and when we called him, half an hour afterward, he came with five good-sized trout. Not contented with his success, after supper he went to the mouth of the creek and hooked a pound-and-a-half fish, which he brought in with much gratification.

Joshua seemed endowed with new life; he was out of bed next morning and had breakfast prepared before we were fairly awake; by seven o'clock we were on the road. The coach on its way to Meeker passed us shortly after we had started, and would reach its destination by five o'clock. Joshua admitted that he had more than once made the trip in one day from Glenwood with a light wagon and a good team.

The country between Newcastle and Rifle Creek is blessed with spacious mesas covered with black sage brush. Here and there these acres are under ditch and cultivation, attesting that the uninviting uplands, with the aid of water, can be converted into beautiful farms. We crossed Rifle Creek, up and over a broad mesa to Dry Rifle, and found ourselves in a neighborhood by no means attractive. Sage brush, cactus and greasewood, inhabited by magpies and an occasional raven, do not tend to inspire one with pleasant fancies. The soil is adobe, the gulch contracted and hot, and water to be thought of only; the sage brush had assumed dignity and grown into trees. But the arroyo soon widened and gave us a view of pleasantly wooded low hills, and a cool breeze greeted us. The road was good, and we trundled along in cheerfulness, Joshua aiding at intervals with a lively air from the Gospel Collection, or stimulating us with the assurance that game was plenty "back among them hills." We took a lunch about noon but found the water warm and slightly impregnated with alkali; at Morgan's, where we went into early camp, the water was better.

After crossing the Divide, and before we reached our camping-place, the country had improved decidedly; the grass was fresher and more abundant, and the wild flowers added to the attraction of the slope along which we were travelling; the distant hills were bountifully dotted with aspen groves and openings—suggestive to one accustomed to the haunts of deer. Gaps in the hills immediately skirting our way would reveal small parks, beautifully green, and the entrance to them usually guarded by picturesque rocks. In one of these projections a dromedary was conspicuously outlined, with its head carried to the life. In another a hippopotamus was wallowing up from a sandstone bed. In another the form of a woman half reclining in a high-backed chair, while immediately in front was a figure in an attitude of supplication. The afternoon sun shining fairly upon this group gave us a good view of the features in profile; other rocks immediately in front and to the right of the principal figure, were readily constructed into groups bearing a human resemblance, and the Major at once gave the place the name of the Queen's Court. Many have passed this way, no doubt, and have seen a medley of rocks, while others may have enjoyed with us the distinction of an audience with royalty. Balancing Rock, however, cannot escape the attention of the most indifferent.

We finally caught a glimpse of a bit of the White River Valley through the gorge toward which we were moving: a beautiful stretch of meadow-like land reaching up to timber-clothed mountains. The view continued to expand until we arrived at the border of the stream. The way wound among willows and mountain beech, with a few scrub oaks, now and then an alder bush, and what Joshua termed haw bushes, bringing us suddenly to the margin of the river. The water was perfectly clear and cold, with the brush growing close down to the edges of the banks; just above the ford was a pool in which the Major was as sure there were trout as that the sun shone. It did seem, indeed, that the fish must find delightful habitation in every foot of water in sight. We crossed and made camp, and it was not long before the Major verified his prediction. From that same pool, within a hundred feet of the ford where people were crossing nearly every hour of the day, he brought in two trout that more than sufficed for our supper.

"The stream is just alive with them, my boy—you will have trouting such as you never had before."

CHAPTER VI.

ON WHITE RIVER.

Two miles, about, below our camp is that part of the valley where the Ute Indian Agency was situated a few years ago. Here it was that the pot-bellied potentate Colorow and his horde of tatterdemalions cruelly murdered agent Meeker, captured and carried away women and children, and committed other unprovoked atrocities—receiving, as an inducement for further outrages, additional government subsidies and comfort. The soil which these "red brothers" refused to cultivate now glitters in a garb of golden grain; they killed their best guide and friend, who never had for them other than kind words and fatherly admonitions, because it required work to change the product from sage brush to wheat. If a man should undertake to harness an adult grizzly to a plough the world would consider him weak and fail to mourn his death, though he would be on a par with the governmental "policy" touching the Indian. A century of failure should, it would seem, convince even a nation that there were defective cogs in its policy wheel.

But the Major suggests that I drop the subject, unless I desire to write a volume on a disease that I cannot cure. He says it is like any other botch, spoiled in the beginning of its existence, and it would be impossible now "to lick into shape."

"It is only a matter of time when our 'red brother' will cease to be, and our disgrace will culminate at his final departure. We are out for fish and our own reformation only."

Now that we are on the stream that we started in search of, there is no occasion to hurry. We have with us all the necessary accessories to comfortable housekeeping; our time is our own, and we enjoy a solid independence of landlords, railroads or stage-coaches. A house would be an incumbrance and finger-bowls as superfluous as a piano. Do you know what it is to be free, absolutely oblivious to care, past or prospective; with no apprehension touching the condition of your linen, the set of your necktie or the volume of your trousers at the knees? If not, go camping. The destitution of polish on your shoes and the holes in your hat become luxurious, as you view the one through the other while you lie on your back in the shade and pull down the "old felt" to screen your eyes from the brilliancy of the blue roof under which you are loafing. Each month thus invested will add six months to each year; toward the end of your time you will realize this, and find your joints supple to a ripe old age.

The next morning at breakfast the Major requested me to do the fishing for the day's supply; he desired to go prospecting:

"You have not wet a line since we started; you had an opportunity at Elk Creek and here, also, last night. I thought you were fond of angling?"

"So I am, but catching fish does not constitute my view of angling; it is only one of the pleasures that awaits in the vestibule of the temple. A beautiful attendant merely who induces us into the inner sanctuary."

"We'll shake hands on that, my boy," exclaimed the Major.

Joshua, who ate with us at our solicitation, stopped his cup of coffee half way to his mouth and stared at me.

"I'll get a gunny-sack full, if you want 'em, Major,—can do it in half a day," said Joshua, sipping his coffee.

"We would rather you did nothing of the sort, Mr. Miles," and the Major's manner was somewhat testy; "we could make no use of them—the time of plenty is the time to save—you've heard that before, no doubt, or something like it?"

"Oh, yes, I've heard mother say that many a time."

"I thought so—a mother's advice is always good, and you can apply it to fish and other game."

"All right, just as you say."

The Major started off to the hills with his Winchester. Joshua concluded he would stay around camp and "square things up." One of the horses had stepped on the new coffee-mill and ruined it, and he must look out for another. The principal feature of the new coffee-mill was a piece of clean board about a foot square; the other part of the complication consisted of a tin can. He placed the coffee on the board and rolled it fine with the can: the board, being the important part, in the absence of carpenter shops and sawmills, was the portion fractured, of course.

I put my rod together and adjusted the reel. The leader and flies had been in soak for an hour and were in good condition; I had selected a coachman, a red-bodied gray hackle and a brown cofflin to test in prolific water a theory of mine. The White River in the fifty or more miles we experimented is the ideal of a trout stream. From our camping-place for thirty and odd miles to the cañon of the South Fork is a series of riffles, deep swirls under bushy banks, pools and comparatively still reaches. The willows and other shrubs are so thick that the opportunity for casting from the shore is happily exceptional. There is no satisfactory alternative but to pursue the best method. The stones are clean beyond those in any stream which I ever waded, and the prospect of a wetting from smooth rubber boots and rocks a remote possibility. To avoid the places too deep to wade, crossing and recrossing the riffles becomes a necessity; these opportunities seem to lie at such convenient and appropriate distances that admiration for the skill of the Designer is irresistible; one takes to the dancing crystal with a love for it, and a reverence for its Presiding Genius. There is a feeling of exultation as one enters and stands solitary in mid-stream and looks down the flashing current; the surging of the water, as it takes his limbs into its cool embrace, whispers a greeting of welcome; hid by the growth upon either side one feels no longer alone, the water-sprites are with him in loving communion and sympathy.

So standing and happily surrounded, I commissioned the gray hackle, at the end of my leader, to ascertain what might be lurking in the shade of the opposite bank, where the current was swift and the water four feet deep, at least. It was taken at once, and inside of five minutes I had a trout of a pound's weight safe in the landing-net. As soon as possible after hooking him, I had drawn away from his hiding-place and coaxed him into shallower and quieter water, so that his neighbors, if he had any, might not be disturbed. After placing him in the creel, I changed the hackle for the coachman and it was taken as readily, the fish being a mate to the first. A third cast resulted in a failure, a fourth brought a rise, a little more line and at the fifth the fly alighted in the acceptable spot, and was taken by a still larger fish.

Changing the coachman for the cofflin, I waded down, close under the bushes of the right bank, crossed a riffle and dropped the fly just where the water slowed up a little, at the foot. It had scarcely touched the surface when I saw the gaping jaws of an apparent leviathan close upon it; at the same instant I struck and the bamboo bent to its work. A leap clear from the water advised me that I had one of the lighter-colored variety and consequently more of a fight on my hands. Five minutes, however, at a guess, sufficed to bring him into the net. He weighed, an hour afterward by my pocket scales, a scant one and three quarter pounds. I lengthened the line a little and brought out another of nearly a pound. If the trout were to keep up to these weights, for only a little while, there would be waste in camp, and I wished for a few smaller. But they did not come to me; either of the next three would weigh three-fourths of a pound, and going back to the slight opening in the brush, through which I entered, I climbed out and returned to camp.

Joshua received the creel and examined its contents.

"You and the Major seem to have the same notions; I thought you would fill up that basket and string a lot on a willer."

"There are quite eight pounds,—sufficient for two meals."

"Yes, I know, but how do you manage to stop? When the fish bite that way I want to catch 'em." Thereupon I read a homily to Joshua on the art of angling, at the conclusion of which he said he understood what I had told the Major in the morning about the "inner sanctuary."

"That is, I have an idea about it—mebbe I'll try it some day; but this is such a dog-on hard world to get along in and buy shoes for the baby! I'm afraid I can't get into your way—a fellow can't live on scenery, you know, and 'tain't easy for old dogs to learn new tricks. But I'll try and not make a trout hog of myself, as you call it, anyway—I think I can manage that much."

He went off with my fish and creel toward the river, singing, and I flattered myself on having made a partial convert.

Just before noon the Major returned, warm and tired, and sought solace of his pipe. He brought with him two willow grouse with their heads shot off. He had found a coal mine in the bluffs above us, near the town, and had discovered other flattering indications of future wealth for those inclined to pick them up. He had also started two deer, "within fifty yards," during his tramp.

"Where are they?" inquired Joshua.

"Over in those hills, I presume," answered the Major, with a nod toward the supposed locality.

"Why! didn't you kill nary one?"

"Nary one."

"Well, I swan—what's the good of carrying a rifle?"

"What's the good of killing what you don't need?"

"Gentlemen, excuse me, I don't mean any offence, but I'm durned if you ain't the queerest pair of cranks in the huntin' and fishin' way, I ever see. I don't know, but mebbe you're right about it, still I can't get it through my hair. Of course, I don't believe in wastin' meat, but, I'd a—had to shot them deer."

"Mr. Miles, you ought to live where there is one deer to a township and a trout to a mile of water—you'd change your mind and want to hang the man who talked as you do."

"How'll you have the grouse cooked, Major—stewed or fried?"

"Either way."

Joshua served them up to us roasted, and they were delicious.

Loitering by the road later in the afternoon I saw the coach on the opposite side of the river, before it came down into the bottom-land. There was a passenger on the box with an umbrella. I waited and recognized Mr. Dide, who had added a fishing-rod to his luggage.

"Weally!—dwivah, stop a moment. I am delighted to see you; do you live in the vicinity?"

I informed him that the camp was just below, and we should be pleased to have him call.

"Chawming—thanks; I shall be delighted to drop in."

He did so, just before supper, very much to the astonishment of Joshua and the surprise of the Major. I had forgotten to apprise my friend of the new arrival and of the invitation I had extended. I also confessed a little wonder to myself at the gentleman's prompt fulfilment of his promise, but was none the less gratified.

"I have heard" (it is impossible to spell the word as he pronounced it) "of Meekah, you know, and the twouting, and thought it would be quite novel to wun ovah. The wide was not vewy inviting, but this is chawming—think so?"

Mr. Dide was so truly delighted with the novelty of his experience, and so full of anxiety to make it known, that he was permitted to run on without interruption. Hitherto he had seemed reticent, now he was overflowing in the opposite direction.

"I've nevah twouted, you know, but I shall twy. I bought a pole and some widiculous-looking flies."

The Major suggested that I knew something about the sport, and would, no doubt, assist him in gratifying his ambition. Of course I would, and did. My office of mentor was not devoid of pleasant incidents. He was to call in the morning, with his tackle, and did so immediately after breakfast. He was not prepared to wade, and I borrowed the Major's boots without leave. The rod was a cheap specimen of ash and lancewood, and the dealer had been fair with him in the matter of line, leaders and flies. The Major will bring down the scales at two hundred, Mr. Dide at one hundred and twenty-five pounds, at a guess; in the Major's boots Mr. Dide, I must confess, appeared at a disadvantage. I adjusted his tackle, even to the winding of the line on the little brass reel above the grip, and led the way to the scene of my own recent exploits.

Mr. Dide, upon entering the water, affirmed that it was cold; there was no gainsaying his assertion. He expressed a doubt of his ability to keep his feet, and I endeavored to assist him. He tossed his fly in the direction I suggested, allowed the point of the rod to drop and the fly floated at the edge of the swirl. I admonished him to hold his rod up; at the same instant a trout hooked himself, the little reel spun round and Mr. Dide exclaimed in great exultation:

"I have got him! I have got him!"

"But you will not keep him long, Mr. Dide, if you do not check the line."

"Aw—but I cawn't, you know—oblige me!" and he held out his umbrella toward me. The trout in the meantime was having his own way; the line was fast disappearing from the reel; suddenly it slacked, his troutship was returning, and rapidly. I supported Mr. Dide by seizing the back of his collar with one hand and relieved him of the umbrella, directing him to reel in the line. The fish was without doubt fatally hooked. Mr. Dide, laboring at the crank with a vigor that would have given a hundred revolutions a second to an ordinary grindstone, succeeded in retrieving the slack. As he did so the fish gave a leap half out of the water, and a struggle that brought the butt of the rod in contact with the fisherman's stomach. Something snapped—it was the tip. Still the hook held, the line could be trusted; if the leader and snell proved true the fish might yet be saved. I directed Mr. Dide to give no more line, but simply to hold the remains of his rod firmly and to stand still, if he could. He endeavored to follow instructions, and I took up my station a little lower down and to one side in shallower water, watching the brave exertions of the quarry to free itself. I bethought me that the umbrella, in the absence of my landing-net, might be put to profitable use. As the fish came my way I suddenly scooped him up from behind, together with an umbrella nearly full of water; the trout went over the edge some time before I could empty the novel device.

"That's the most extwaawdinawy pwoceeding I evah witnessed!" exclaimed Mr. Dide.

Certainly it was beyond anything in my own experience. I concluded that the only way to save the fish was to get to the bank. Mr. Dide declined my offer to take his rod, for which I commended him, but he was doubtful of his ability to stem the current and manage his tackle without my assistance, so I led him ashore and he dragged the trout. Seizing my opportunity, when the nearly exhausted victim was quiet, I lifted him out by the leader. He had hooked himself through the tongue, and so deeply that, notwithstanding his struggles, the wound was but little enlarged, and the use of a knife was required to release him.

Mr. Dide was so much delighted at his success that the damage to his rod was a matter of little importance. He would have continued to fish with the remains of it, but that I convinced him of the impossibility of casting a fly without a tip. He returned to camp and soon came back with the extra one. I concluded to prospect for openings in the brush. Having found one with a promising little eddy below it, I indicated the best place, in my judgment, at which the fly should be delivered. Mr. Dide undertook the feat and the fly caught in the willows behind him. I released it and the next effort resulted in a good hold upon the umbrella, which the gentleman insisted upon keeping over his head. I was constrained to advise him that the umbrella would better be put aside; he surrendered it to me hesitatingly, as if he might be at a loss without it. He splashed the fly into the water within a rod of the place I had suggested, but that was of no importance; a trout took it in a moment and in the next was flying high in air and eventually became entangled in the brush. I wondered whether first efforts were ordinarily attended with the results I had witnessed, or whether my protégé were specially skilled in awkwardness. After he had placed me and my apparel in jeopardy several times I took the rod and endeavored to show him how to make a cast; then I did not blame him so much. But he felt encouraged, and I betook myself to camp, leaving him to work out his own salvation. He came back before noon with the two trout; his rod was broken again and he was very wet, having evidently been up to his neck in water.