It has come about that now, to many a Royal Society, the Creation of a World is little more mysterious than the cooking of a dumpling; concerning which last, indeed, there have been minds to whom the question, How the apples were got in, presented difficulties.—Sartor Resartus.
It was noon at Big Springs, the last village on the Union Pacific Railroad in Nebraska, when I sat down to write in my dairy. I had just finished a combination breakfast and dinner, warranted to kill any appetite and keep it dead for twelve hours. Consequently I wrote under great pressure.
Since striking Camp Coyote, I had shot prairie dogs, owls, jack-rabbits, and gophers innumerable, but on Wednesday, June 30, I killed my first rattlesnake. It was not the first we had seen, but the first to lie in our path. I wanted to shoot it's head off, but instead of it losing its head, I lost mine, and severed its vertebræ. The snake was three feet five, and possessed eight rattles and a button. Cookskin suggested that the button might come in handy in many ways. "You know, Pod, you are always losing buttons."
These dreaded reptiles abound on the plains, particularly in dogtowns, where they can dine on superfluous baby-dogs when families become too large. Three sorts of creatures, including the owl—animal, bird, and reptile—bunk together companionably, but have quarrels of their own, doubtless, like mankind in domestic affairs. At that season the South Platte was drained for irrigation in Colorado. I was riding peaceably along, watching its morbid current and the gray hills beyond, when suddenly my valet yelled to me, "Look out, Pod, a rattler ahead!"
Coonskin was riding Cheese, who leaped to one side, but my own steed, blinded by his spectacle-frames, walked on and stepped over the coiled snake, which struck at my leg. Fortunately my canvas legging protected me from the reptile's fangs, which glanced off, letting him fall in the trail. Instantly I turned in my saddle and ended its miserable existence.
The report of my revolver attracted some cowboys, who galloped up on their rope horses and accompanied us to their adobe house a few miles beyond. It was five in the afternoon, the day was hot, and our journey long and dusty. They were a jolly lot. Thir ranch was a square sod structure, without a floor, and sparingly furnished, but cool and comfortable.
"We'll have hot biscuit for supper," said one of the cowboys.
"So you like cooking," I remarked; "I pride myself on the dumplings I make, and my flapjacks are marvels of construction."
"Hang together well, I suppose," observed the cook, smiling and piling buffalo chips in the stove.
"I haven't tasted dumplings since I visited the World's Fair," said another.
"Well," declared the first speaker, "my tenderfoot friend, your oven will soon be hot, and the flour, soda, shortening, and apples are on the shelf. Anything else you need, ask for it."
I was in a bad fix; I remembered the parrot that got into trouble with the bull-terrier by talking too much.
"It requires a long time to steam dumplings; it will delay supper," I protested.
"We shan't turn you out, if it takes you all night, but we'll shoot the enamel off your front teeth if you don't make them apple dumplings, and do your best," said a cowboy.
"All right, boys, I'll try my luck, and you can save time by helping."
"Sure," all replied.
"Fetch me the shortening," I called.
"Right before your eyes," said one.
"Blamed if I can see it," I explained. The fellow put his hands on a cake of greasy-looking substance.
"That's soap," I said, remonstrating, with a chuckle.
"All we use for shortening," apologized the cook; "don't see much butter or lard out on this here desert."
I fell to with a will. Before long my dough was mixed. As I rolled it out with a tin can, I directed a cowboy to put in the apples and roll up the dough. Soon the dumplings were in the steamer, and the cook began to prepare other eatables for the meal. Then, my duty done, I watched two fellows throw the lariat, and shoot the fly specks off Coonskin's hat in midair.
At last, five hearty eaters sat down to dinner. The cook's hot biscuits, potatoes, bacon, eggs and coffee were delicious, and I devoured them greedily. But in the middle of our repast I turned my head in time to detect the cook meddling with the dumplings.
"Shouldn't take off the cover till they're done," I shouted; "makes 'em heavy."
"Didn't take it off—lifted itself off," explained the man, regarding me first, then the steamer. "Man alive, the dumplings are as big as cabbages."
"And 'tain't more'n likely they've got their growth yet," said Coonskin, who examined the wonders.
"Gracious!" I exclaimed. "How many apples did you cram into each dumpling?"
"Only fifteen or twenty," the cook returned; "awfully small, you know."
"That explains the size of them," said I. "You've got a half dozen whole apples in each dumpling, and a peck or more in the steamer. Don't you know dried fruit swells?"
"But how am I to keep the lid on the steamer," asked the hungry cook, wistfully eying the disappearing meal.
"Sit on it, you crazy loon," suggested a companion.
And the fellow did. Presently there was a deafening report, and the cook was lifted off the steamer, while dumplings flew in every direction, striking the ceiling, and then, from heaviness, dropping on the floor. One broke my plate into a dozen pieces. Another hot and saucy dumpling shot through the bursted side of the steamer, hitting one of the cowboys in the eye.
"Just my luck," I said; "they would have been as light as a feather."
"Light!" exclaimed the injured fellow with a handkerchief against his scalded optic. "It was the heaviest thing that ever hit me, let me tell you, and I've been punching cattle seven years."
When the excitement was over, and we had found sufficient grub to complete our meal, all assembled in the cool outer air, where Coonskin and I entertained with our musical instruments until bedtime.
Next morning, on my suggestion, a cowboy threw his lariat round my body good-naturedly and pulled me over, but before I could right myself Don took three bounds and pulled the fellow down by the shoulder, frightening one and all. I shouted so loudly to the dog that I was hoarse for a week. That demonstration of Don's loyalty was a revelation to me. The man was not injured, although his coat was torn.
The lack of energy and enterprise of the town of the western plains was both surprising and amusing. I expected a package of photos at Willow Island. When I called for it I was informed that the railroad station had burned a few months before, and that their express stopped at Cozad, which I had passed through. So I wrote to have the package forwarded to a station farther west.
Gothenburg, the next town, was in a decline, the reaction of a boom. A traveler approaching it expects to find a business center. Many stores and dwellings were of brick, but whole rows were vacant at the time. The soothing melody of the squalling infant was only a memory to the village druggist; the itinerant butcher and milkman had ceased their daily rounds; and all that was left to distinguish the half-deserted village from the desert was an occasional swallow that went down the parched mouth of a chimney. There is another town characteristic of the plains. I had a letter to post at Paxton, but forgot it; some miles beyond, a ranchman whom we met said I would find a post-office at Korty, five miles further on. After traveling two hours, we could see no vestige of a village anywhere. Don ran ahead to the top of every sand hill and stood on his hind feet to have the first peep at the mysterious town. I came to the conclusion the ranchman had said twenty-five miles instead of five. Finally the trail approached the railroad.
"I see the town of Korty!" my valet exclaimed.
"Where?" I asked.
"There. Plain as day. Can't you see it?" he asked, pointing straight ahead.
"I must confess I can't," I replied. "Let me look over your finger." Then I saw it. It wasn't one hundred feet away. A single white-painted post stood beside the track, and on it was nailed a cross-bar, lettered in bold type, "Korty;" underneath was a letter-box. That was the town. There was no section house, no water tank, no break in the wire fence, and there being, of course, no general delivery window in the "post-office," I did not ask for my mail.
On the way to North Platte, we passed the site of old Ft. McPherson, where Buffalo Bill, the celebrated scout, once lived and won his fame and title by providing buffalo meat for the Government, and also the site of a notorious Pawnee village, now called Pawnee Springs. We reached North Platte, situated at the confluence of the North and South Platte rivers, which form the great River Platte, Saturday afternoon, and spent Sunday in a manner to meet the approval of the most pious.
That first evening I lectured from a large dry-goods box on a prominent corner.
Sunday afternoon an old friend and classmate drove me into the country to the famous "Scout's Rest Ranch," the estate of Mr. Cody (Buffalo Bill), where I saw a herd of buffalo and a cornfield of 500 acres.
"There is quite a contrast between your cornfield and mine," I said to the manager.
"How big a cornfield have you?"
"Just a small one," I replied. "One acher on each big toe."
"I see, only sufficient for your own use," came the response; "your 'stock in' trade, as it were." Then the ranchman purchased a photo, and we two grown-up school boys drove back to town, in time to escape a thunder shower.
The country between North Platte and Julesburg is a desolate and barren region. Occasionally we could see a ranch house, sometimes cattle grazing on I knew not what. There was plenty of alkali grass in the bottom lands of the Platte, and further back on the mesa, patches of the short and nutritious buffalo grass, half seared by the scorching sun. The railway stations, with one or two exceptions, consisted of water tanks and section houses, where water could be procured. At Ogalala we met a train-load of Christian Endeavorers, and had a chance to quench our thirst.
BY MAC A'RONY.
Where and how to celebrate the Fourth of July greatly concerned Pye Pod. The third was spent in Julesburg, a town in Colorado, two miles west of the boundary line; as Sunday was the Fourth, we naturally expected a lively programme for Saturday.
We were disappointed. Everybody had gone off on an excursion, and Julesburg was dead. So my master, realizing the long journey before us, inquired as to the possibility of obtaining an extra donkey, and was told of one, some six miles from town. He rode in a buggy to a ranch right after lunch and brought back the prettiest damsel I ever saw. Her name was Skates; Pod said he so named her because she ran all the way and beat his pride-broken, wind-broken horse into town. I gave Skates a loving smile, but she gave me a look, which said, "Keep your distance, young feller." So I did. But I lost my heart to that girl then and there.
Pod noticed my leaning toward Skates, and asked me my intentions. I frankly told him. "But what nonsense for a youth of four years," he remarked. "Mac, be patient; wait until you are of age, at least."
Time was precious, and we could not tarry. That afternoon we set out for Sterling, sixty miles into the desert, where, it was said, there would be a big time on the fifth.
Monday dawned cloudy and threatening, as is usual with celebration days. The tent door was open, and Skates and I were looking in, I waiting for a chance to pull a bag of eatables out of the tent for her.
"What is your programme for to-day?" Pod asked his valet.
No answer. The question was repeated; still no response. Then my master turned drowsily on his pillow, and beheld Coonskin with bloodshot eyes and the only whiskey bottle clasped lovingly to his breast. The valet wanted to say something, but his lips refused to speak. It was evident that his celebration had begun the night before. Pod sat up and rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming, and then asked the fellow why he drank all the emergency whiskey.
"R-r-r-r-r-r-r-rat-schnake bite-bite-bited me—d—drank whisky t'shave life," stammered the youth. "H-h-h-hic-have shome, Prof."
Pod looked mad. He up and dressed, and mixed soda and water and lemon juice, and made Coonskin drink it. Soon the tipsy fellow tried to dress, but finally gave it up and went to sleep. Two hours later he awoke quite sober, and came out to where Pod was currying me for the celebration, and showed him his programme. I haven't space to give it in full.
One feature was an obstacle race, the prize for the winner being a quart bottle of snake-bit (whiskey). Coonskin said, as his excuse for drinking the whiskey, that he was certain of winning the race, but afraid the bottle might be broken before the event. Pod thought that reasonable enough, and forgave him; but he told me confidentially that he didn't know what he should do if he were bitten by a rattlesnake without whiskey at hand. I suggested, in such event, he should point a revolver at Coonskin's garret, where his brains ought to have been, and make him suck out the poison.
The obstacle race began at eleven in the morning. The start was made from the tent door; the course and conditions were as follows:
Run to the fifth fence-post down the trail, alongside the railroad track; crawl through the barbed-wire fence four times between different posts on the way back to the tent, without tearing clothes; creep through the legs of the little portable table (purchased in Julesburg) without rolling off an egg resting on it; run a hundred yards and unpicket one of the donkeys and ride it round the tent three times with a spoon in hand, holding an egg; ride the donk back to his picket-pin and crawl between its hind legs without disturbing the animal's equilibrium; stand in the tent door and shoot some hair off one of the donkey's tails without touching the tail proper; then lead that donkey to the tent and hitch him to the turtle, Bill. Cheating, if detected, forfeited the prize.
Well, while there were two starters, there was only one finisher. It seems that Coonskin shot a piece off Cheese's tail (improper, the donk said), and, in consequence, man and donk disappeared over the horizon, without leaving their future address or the date for their return.
Coonskin rode Cheese into camp after dark. Then he rubbed axle-grease on Cheese's sensitive part, and prepared the delayed dinner. Next came fire-works—Roman candles, firecrackers, and pin-wheels—after which both men retired, fancying they had the jolliest Fourth ever witnessed by man or donkey in the history of the Colorado desert.
BY PYE POD.
Sancho Panza hastened to his master's help as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up he found the knight unable to stir, such a shock had Rosinante given him in the fall.—Don Quixote.
The casualty, which terminated our celebration on the fifth, seemed to portend bad luck. The metaphorical lightning first struck me. We struck camp, that hot July day, before the sun was an hour high, and a mile beyond trailed through a dog-town reservation. I had long been desirous of securing a prairie dog to have mounted; as a rule one can pick off these shy creatures only at long rifle range. This morning, stealing up behind a cornfield, I wounded a dog, then dropping my gun, ran to catch him before he could escape into his hole. Crawling through a barbed-wire fence without afterward appearing in dishabille is considered by a tenderfoot the feat of feats. Before I reached the hole half undressed the dog had tumbled into it. He must have made a mistake, however, for out the fellow came, and made for another hole. I grabbed him, but instantly dropped him, for he tried to bite me. Then, like a shot, he dived into the second hole, and I thrust my arm in to pull him out. But my hand came out quite as fast as it went in. It was bitten; and at the mouth of the hole I now detected for the first time the tail of a rattlesnake. That was an awful moment, What should I do? My whiskey was gone; I had no antidote for the poison. I rushed to where Coonskin was waiting with my outfit.
"Make for the house!" he exclaimed.
A ranch house stood some two miles away, but not a soul was in sight. Still, that seemed to be my only salvation; I realized a painful death was the only alternative. With a hundred other thoughts rushing into my head, I ran toward the distant house. Coonskin began picketing the donkeys, and promised to follow.
While racing madly through the cacti and sage, I thought of my past, from three months upward. Just when I had reached an episode, which almost ended my reckless career at the age of ten, I heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and, a moment later, a young woman reined her steed at my side, dismounted and gave me her horse.
"Into the saddle, quick, man!" she cried. "Mother has turpentine and whiskey. The horse will take the fence and ditch. Pull leather, stick to the saddle, never mind the stirrups!" and to the horse—"Git home, Topsy!—Run for your life, old girl!" Like a flash, the big mare sped forward with the velocity of the wind.
To pull leather, in the parlance of the cowboy, means to grip the saddle with the hands. For a cow-puncher to pull leather is deemed disgraceful; for Pod, it was excusable. Although the mare fairly flew, she did not travel half fast enough to suit me. With reins round the saddle-horn, I gripped the saddle with my left hand and sucked the bite on my right, but suddenly the mare took a hop-skip-and-jump over the fence and ditch; fell to her knees, and threw me over her head.
When I sat up, I saw a woman in the door of the house, yet a half mile away, no doubt, wondering how a maniac happened to be on her daughter's steed. The next moment, Coonskin arived all out of breath, and assisted me to the house. Before we could fully explain the situation, the good woman disappeared, soon to return with a bottle of turpentine, which she turned nozzle down over the snake bite, while my valet poured whiskey down my throat.
They say it takes a long time and much whiskey to affect one bitten by a rattler, but this case seemed to be an exception; in a few moments, my head was going round, and I prostrate on a couch. My kind nurse looked curiously at the turpentine, and finally said it was queer it didn't turn green, as it should in the case of a rattle-snake bite.
A half hour passed and still there was no change. Then when I repeated my story of how the thing happened, she grinned, and said she guessed it was the prairie dog and not the snake that bit me, after all. I was so dead drunk when the daughter came that she glanced at me and asked in a whisper, "Is he dead?"
"No," said the mother, "and he ain't going to die. We've been trying to cure dog bite with 'snake bit', and I reckon it'll take a week or more to sober the man up."
Then the daughter began to get a meal, and Coonskin went after my outfit, on the good woman's suggestion, to fetch my animals to the corral.
It was not until morning that I was fit to sit my saddle; but I made the effort, and after thanking my hostesses and insisting on paying for the turpentine, we said good-bye.
Mid-day travel, in the Colorado desert at that season, was enervating in the extreme. Our straw helmets, being supported by a skeleton crown, allowed a free circulation of air over and about the head; also a free circulation of buffalo gnats, blue flies, mosquitos, flying ants, grasshoppers, and everything else that hadn't an excuse for living. Everything seemed to be free in that country.
The sunrays beat down mercilessly on the sandy plain, and every live thing seemed to be in search of shade or water. Once, while crossing the dry and cracked bed of a stream, I saw a rabbit, almost dying of thirst, and I put an end to its agony with my six-shooter. In the narrow bars of shade cast by the fence posts along the railroad, could be seen occasional birds, standing on the hot sand, immovable, with bills wide open, panting from the excessive heat.
We reached Sterling late that night, after a twenty-eight mile journey. The town looked dull. Everybody complained of the hottest weather for years. It occurred to me that an awning would add greatly to our comfort, so I bought the canvas, and had one made. Henceforth we would travel at night, and sleep as much as possible in the day beneath the awning. I also purchased a light folding chair, which, with our table and stove, could easily be carried on Skates, the new donkey.
We pitched camp eight miles from town, near a sod house and well. On the way the donkeys became obstreperous, and before they were under control, our only lantern was smashed. This stroke of bad luck was the forerunner of other misfortunes.
As I fell on my hard bed, expecting to have a delightful rest, I voiced a righteous yell of pain, and leaped out of doors. I was a fair imitation of a porcupine. Coonskin had carelessly pitched the tent on a bed of cacti. The astonished fellow made profuse apologies, and set to the task of picking the cactus spears out of me by the flare of lighted matches. But for a week I suffered the sensations of sleeping on pins and needles.
The turtle, Bill, deserves some notice. He was put in the center of a table at meal time to catch flies, but all that stupid turtle did was to scrape them off his head by drawing it under his shell. He disdained the carnivorous diet. Millions of insects swarmed about the table, where before only thousands had gathered, attracted, doubtless, by Bill. They literally covered our food and all we could safely eat was flapjacks. Holding a fork against the mouth, we could with lips and tongue draw a flapjack in through the tines, by which delicate operation all flies and other insects were scraped off; and in course of time a fairly good meal was conveyed to our stomachs. Of course, one's success depended upon the strength of the flapjacks. Most of them stood the strain.
The afternoon of July 11, we saw Long's Peak, the first spur of the Rocky Mountains, in view. The following evening we rode into Fort Morgan. Journeying on, to escape the heat of the day, we came at midnight to where several trails crossed, and were puzzled which to take.
"Put the responsibility on the donkeys," I finally suggested. "They've great instinct."
"Good idea," commented my valet; "I've often heard of horses taking lost hunters out of the woods." So giving the word, my caravan resumed the march in the darkness, and went into camp about four in the morning. When I arose about noon, I was surprised to find ourselves on the outskirts of a village. I called Coonskin, with a feeling of suspicion dawning in my mind.
"The blasted town looks familiar," said my valet.
About that time a cowboy rode up, and I asked him the name of the town.
"Fort Morgan," he answered. "Have you fellows lost anything?" Coonskin and I eyed each other, then both gazed thoughtfully at the jackasses.
I was provoked about the loss of that night's journey; to think of our following our donkey's ears round an imaginary race-course in the desert, some twenty odd miles, was not conducive to a good temper. Many well-meaning persons had advised me to carry a compass. Some day, some night, they said, I would stray from the trail. I resolved to purchase such an instrument immediately on reaching Denver.
We spent the afternoon enjoying the luxuries of our new awning and camp chairs; I writing my article for the press, Coonskin reading a thrilling dime novel.
"This is life," remarked my napping valet, as he rolled over on his pillow.
"You bet," I replied; "we know who we are."
"I suppose there are lots of folks who don't know, Prof," he returned; "but they'll find out before we reach 'Frisco."
"But Coonskin," I asked, looking up from my writing, "do you know where we are?"
I had no sooner put the question than a whirlwind swept down upon the camp and scattered everything broadcast. Tent, awning, table, chairs, ink and writing pad, packing cases, and articles of all kinds, not to mention dog, donkeys, and men chased each other over the cacti and sand; the tent half inflated, rolled over in the scudding wind like a balloon.
"No, I don't," said Coonskin, gaining a sitting posture a rod from where I stood on my head, some hundred yards from our original camp.
"What are you talking about?—are you wandering?" I asked.
"I think the whole shooting-match has been wandering some," said he, picking the sand out of his eyes.
It was long before we collected our belongings. I never found my letter for the press.
Just before sunset we took up the march across the broad, rolling plains, which grew tiresome to look upon before darkness set in. But occasionally a hand-car with its sloop-rigged sails set to the wind would speed over the rails in the distance, like a cat-boat before a gale, and break the monotony of the scene. This mode of travel appears to be characteristic of the Western plains alone.
We saw innumerable buffalo wallows, great depressions in the sand where the vast herds of buffalo in the early days wallowed in the cool earth for salt, and to escape the heat and pestering gnats. In most cases these "wallows" are covered with cacti and other desert verdure, and are apt to upset the unwary traveler after dark, unless he keeps to the beaten trail.
At a little before sunset we arrived at the great D. Horse Ranch, where we watered our animals and accepted the ranchman's invitation to supper.
BY MAC A'RONY.
That is the idea; for Juliet's a dear, sweet, mere child of a girl, you know, and she don't bray like a jackass.—Huckleberry Finn.
We did not tarry at the D. Horse Ranch, but later on pitched camp near a sheep ranch run by a Mexican, who met us with a grunt that nobody understood.
"Gee! how I wish I could speak Spanish!" remarked Pod, facing the squatty ranchman. It was comical to watch Coonskin's puzzled face. "I once studied Spanish, but why didn't I master it! Just two words can I remember: "porque"—why, and "manana"—to-morrow. But how can they help me? To utter them would be to ask, why to-morrow? And there would be no sense in that."
"But it might convey the idea," I interrupted, "that either you know more than you looked to know, or appeared to know more than you do know; and that would be something."
My master did not answer, but when the Mexican came around again, he said to him, "Porque manana?" The Mexican laughed—who could blame him—and said something about Espanola, a young lady I never heard tell of, and invited us all to the corral, except the men, who followed him to the house. Nothing like Mexican hospitality when one understands the language as Pod did.
At first the Mexican did not comprehend that we all were thirsty. The Professor asked for a drink in many varieties of expression, concluding with a desperate "Porque Manana?" at the same time pointing to the well. The Mexican grinned, and replied in a peculiar vernacular, and handed him a huge tin cup. Pod next inquired the right trail to Brighton in many artistic demonstrations of verbal inflection and gesticular design, and wound up with a heroic "Porque Manana." The mystified sheep herder shook his head quizzically, and began to pour out a whole tubful of liquid linguistics which my pedantic master drained to the dregs without discovering their meaning; then he shook hands with the gracious host and gave the word to "hit the trail."
"Mighty lucky you understood Spanish, Mr. Pod," Coonskin remarked, when we were some distance from the house. "I'd give a farm to speak it like you."
That tickled Pod's vanity, and he told his flattering valet that Spanish could not be learned in a day, but perhaps sometime he would give him a few lessons, just to prepare him for an emergency.
That night we donks were picketed to a rickety, barbed-wire fence, and the men pitched the tent close by, cooked, and went to bed early. Seldom had been so much care taken to prevent my getting wound up in the rope so I couldn't eat or lie down. In the morning there was a surprise for everybody. S' help me Balaam! if there wasn't a circus, then I never saw one. We donks were completely tangled in the dismantled wire fence, and cutting up capers to beat a side-show. I kept my eye peeled on the tent door for an hour. Finally Pod came out, took in the situation at a glance, and then sat down on a cactus, for less than a fraction of a second, to laugh.
I was proud of the rôle I played in that matinée. There I was, with a fence post wired to each of my legs, which raised my feet off the ground, walking about on veritable stilts, and close behind me followed Cheese and Skates with a post yoking their necks together, like oxen, while Damfino was rolling over and over, unmindful of the cacti, as if our extraordinary sport were for her special entertainment. We were quiet, until Cheese suddenly opened his mouth and brayed with glee. I told him to shut up. Says I, "Pod will think we got in this fix on purpose, and give us Hail Columbia."
Pod looked worried. He said he wondered how they could dismount that giraffe—meaning me, no doubt—without breaking his legs. I didn't feel comfortable so far above the earth, the atmosphere was chilly, and the rarified air made me dizzy; but that remark frightened me. The trick was, at last, accomplished. Coonskin held my fore-stilts, while Pod braced his feet, and with a violent push threw me over on my side on a pile of blankets and pillows. Well, let me tell you, my donkey friends, it required two hours to free us from the fence-posts and wire. After that, both men busied themselves like Red Cross Nurses. (Skates said they were cross nurses of some sort), and bandaged up our cuts and scratches, then, after breakfast, they saddled and packed us for the day's journey. I never want another experience like that.
On Thursday night, I think (I ate up Pod's only calendar), we again wandered from the trail, and about two o'clock camped near a cottonwood tree which seemed to indicate we were near water. Although I was awfully dry, I had to wait till morning. It was pleasant to be lulled to sleep by the rustling of leaves (and it was consoling to know something besides us donks had to rustle), yet there we were in the boundless desert. Don's barking awoke us early. A ranchman rode up and said we would find plenty of water yonder at the well, the only water for many miles around; then he rode away.
There was one long row of cottonwood trees hundreds of feet apart, stretching for a mile or two across the desert, as if planted by birds fifty years ago.
Pod took us empty donks and canteens over to the well. That was the novelest thing I ever saw; and the water was the coolest I ever tasted. An iron wheel turned in a cog and drove a piston-rod down a deep well, the power being furnished by a meek-looking horse which walked round the pump in circus fashion, thinking he was the whole show, and pulled a sort of walking-beam that turned the cog-wheel. There the ranchman and his big small boy rode every morning many miles from home to pump water for their cattle, which ate (they evidently had eaten everything in sight) during the day, and chewed their cud at night in the cottonwood shade.
That morning, when several miles nearer our goal, a stiff wind introduced itself and increased in velocity until such speed was attained that the men had to stop traveling and tie the whole outfit to the picket-pins driven in the ground. That gale beat the tornado on the shore of Lake Erie, and the cyclone near Sterling. We donks had to lie down with our backs to the wind, for Damfino, not thinking, lay the other way at first, and the wind blew into her mouth so fast she swelled up twice her natural size. She was so full of air that she arose and turned around, before being able to lie down again.
Pod said it was a good time to write his letter for the paper. So he hitched his shoulders to ropes tied to picket-pins about five feet apart, and sat in a camp-stool, and, facing the gale, laid his writing pad on the wind, and finished his article in fine style.
When I asked him how the wind could be so strong as to brace up both the pad and his story, he said he was writing in a lighter vein than usual.
We were in sight of Brighton next morning when a strange accident happened to Pod. We were approaching a field of grain on an irrigated ranch when, suddenly, he was struck on the head by a mastodon grasshopper and knocked senseless out of the saddle. At once Don chased the creature and headed him off, while Coonskin lassoed him and bound him on Damfino. We took the wonder to Denver. There Pod put the thing in a bottle of alcohol, but it hadn't been there more than a half hour when it kicked out the bottom, and almost upset a street car in trying to escape. Again the grasshopper was captured, then poisoned and skinned, and the bones were expressed to the Smithsonian Museum.
About one o'clock we left the line of the B. & M. railroad, and cut across the plain six miles to the Union Pacific, which we had left on the previous week. Then we began to descend into the verdant valley of the Platte. Great fields of grain waved in the breeze on either hand. The song of the reaper was cheering, the glistening snow on the distant Rockies, cooling.
At last our caravan ambled into Brighton. It impressed me as a pretty town; after crossing a two hundred mile desert, I was in condition to compliment any sort of a place. That night we traveled ten miles and camped near the Nine Mile House, where, next morning, we were disappointed not to obtain breakfast.
Beautiful, far-famed Denver loomed up on the distant plain. The smoke from her smelters curled on high, a dusky sign of prosperity. We breakfasted three miles nearer the city, and at two P. M. our picturesque outfit strode up Seventeenth street and anchored in front of the Albany Hotel. Denver at last!
BY PYE POD.
At the head of the procession strode the four heralds. Silently they marched, in silence the populace received them. The spectacle reminded very old men of the day the great Axaya was born in mournful pomp to Chapultepec.—The Fair God.
When I had taken a bird's-eye view of Denver, and visited many of its handsome streets and buildings, and met its hospitable citizens, I dubbed it one of the most attractive cities.
One of the first to greet me was a member of the Jacksonian Club, who invited me to attend a lawn party to be given at the home of a fellow member. The grounds were illuminated with Japanese lanterns and a platform was erected for speech-making, while indoors were served refreshments. In the midst of the pleasant proceedings a gentle rain frightened everybody into the house, where dancing closed the festivities. Of course, every pretty girl wanted to dance with Pod.
Sunday seemed to be the accepted day for sight-seeing. The "Seeing Denver" car (electric) made two twenty-five mile trips a day, threading the more attractive portions of the city and suburbs and giving the passengers a splendid idea of the beauties and possibilities of Denver. Each car was manned by a director, who clearly described all points of interest en route.
Finally, the car was stopped on the heights overlooking Clear Creek Valley, where, in 1858, Gregory, a North Carolina prospector, discovered gold in quartz and proved his theory that all placer ore came from a mother lode. People in the East, hearing that gold could be found here in quartz, hurried to the spot, resolved to be contented if they could only find it in pints. While many were disappointed, within a year one hundred and seventy quartz mills were erected, and in 1860 Colorado's gold output amounted to $4,000,000.
The Colorado farmer raises everything in the fruit and vegetable line that can be produced in the East. Through the system of irrigation the soil is brought to such a state of production that one farmer near Denver was reaping a revenue of $5,000 a year from a twenty-acre plot.
"One of our best crops is tomatoes," said our guide, with the view of enlightening some possible investor. "There, you can see in the distance, is one of our largest canneries. It cans tomatoes only. All the tomatoes they can are raised around Denver, and all the tomatoes not consumed in the city are sent to this cannery to be canned. They raise all they can and what they can't raise they can't can. They eat all they can, and all they can't eat they can. Moreover, all they can't can they eat, and what they eat they can't can. All canned tomatoes they can and cannot eat they ship to those who can't visit Denver to eat all they can. If you can visit the cannery and see them can all they can and eat what they can't can, and can't eat a can yourselves, you then only can understand why it is they can't eat what they can and can't can what they eat. Can you not?" When he had finished three women cried.
Later on the journey the car was stopped in a different quarter of the suburbs, where several got off to pluck wild flowers. In the course of our tour many attractive buildings were pointed out, among them the Consumptive's Home, erected by philanthropists of the East, and the several smelting mills, one of which boasts of a chimney four hundred feet in height, the tallest on the continent. While the ladies were gathering wild flowers I was persuaded to perpetrate a practical joke suggested by two jovial Johnny Bulls. I had become quite chatty with their party. They had the impression that I was a cowboy, and when they discovered their error they proposed I should jostle a fellow countryman of theirs as soon as they could decoy him off the car, they claiming that he still believed me a real cow-puncher out for a holiday. They said it was his first trip to America, and that he had frequently expressed a curiosity to see one of those wild men of the plains. On promises of their support in case of offense being taken, I chuckled and awaited my chance.
Presently the man was persuaded to pick a wild rose, and as he was about to pass me I backed roughly against him, almost sending him off his feet. When he had regained his equilibrium and was on the point of rebuking me, I turned furiously upon him: "Say, you foreign tenderfoot," I said, "you got a preemption on the whole earth? If so, just fence it in. Don't yer brush me that way agin, or I'll show yer how we trim moustaches out in this country when our razors ain't sharp. Understand?"
As I uttered these words I put my hand on my hip-pocket. My sombrero was tilted, and the attitude I struck would have amused any real cowboy. The astonished Englishman, red in the face, edged away in silence and eyed me narrowly.
"Turn your lamps the other way, or I'll shoot off yer eyebrows!" I shouted.
At once the innocent butt of our ungentlemanly joke ventured to apologize for the carelessness that was not his, when a peal of laughter from behind told plainly that the joke was off. I turned to see everybody in a fit of laughter; I now began to feel embarrassed, and had not my confederate immediately explained the case and introduced me to their imposed-upon comrade, I certainly would have felt very awkward. As it was, the tourist laughed heartily at the joke, complimented me on my art in acting and gave me a cordial handshake. At our journey's end I was introduced to all the ladies, and induced to pose for their cameras, after which I departed with the well-wishes of all.
I must not overlook an amusing incident of the trip. One of the passengers was an Irishman, who caused much merriment by a stroke of wit, or a blunder, just as the car stopped in front of the City Hall.
"This lovely park which you see," said the director, "has been brought to its present beautiful condition by levying a tax of one mill on all property owners. The burden, you see, was light for each person, and just to all."
"Light was it!" the Emerald-Islander exclaimed. "Begorry! mills must be dom plintiful in these parts, whin every mon is willin' to give uup a mill for an interist in a parruk. Be dad! it must ha' been rough on th' mon that owned but one mill. It was thot!" Whereupon our erudite guide politely dissertated on the great difference in mills, to the amusement of the English party and the Hibernian's satisfaction.
Before leaving Denver I found it advisable to add considerable to my traveling equipment. I ordered a tin canteen from my own design, to hold a gallon of water, and within it was fashioned a receptacle for holding two pounds of butter. Its value was constantly appreciated when crossing the deserts where we were enabled to carry butter, and an extra quantity of drinking water which was kept cool by wrapping the canteen with cloth and canvas and keeping them in a moist condition. I also purchased a large basket-covered demijohn of port wine (for medicinal purposes), an extra pack-saddle and camp supplies.
Although that altitude of 5,000 feet was quite invigorating, the sun at that season was unusually warm, and I intended to enjoy as much camp life as possible. We took a southerly course towards Pike's Peak, threading the villages of Littleton, Castle Rock, Sedalia and Monument, and the city of Colorado Springs. The scenic beauties of Colorado became more manifest every day.
Sunday afternoon I observed in the southwest a dark cloud draw a threatening hood over that giant discovery of 1806 by Col. Zebulon M. Pike, and I decided to camp in the vicinity of a dairy ranch. Anticipating a shower, I rode Skates, my fastest donkey, to the house with canteen and pail, leaving Coonskin to unpack, pitch tent, and build a wood-pile under shelter.
On approaching the house, I detected a pretty dairymaid in the doorway. I endeavored to dismount from my asinine steed with grace, but the picture so unbalanced me that I caught a foot in a stirrup and fell heels over appetite on the ground at my charmer's very feet, much to my embarrassment and her amusement.
"Can you spare me a quart of milk, Miss?" I inquired, lifting my hat. She smiled. Then, fearing lest I might have created the impression of begging, I asked; "can you sell some? I mean to pay for it, of course."
My words seemed to break her spell, and she replied sweetly, "We have two kinds—cream and skimmed milk." And her eyes sparkled. I caught my breath and gave her a chance to lose hers. "Per-per-perhaps you might mix the two safely—mightn't you?" I now felt the crisis coming, and twisted myself nervously. The maid laughed. It quieted my nerves.
"But," she returned, "you see, the cream is all engaged, and—and I would not like to sell you the skimmed milk, because—because we feed that to the hogs."
I smiled now and tried to answer. "Well, what is good enough for hogs ought—," and I hesitated, feeling I was getting things twisted; but she came to the rescue nobly.
"What you mean is, what is good enough for you ought to be good enough for hogs, eh?"
"Thank you," I said. "What you say goes," and I handed her the pail, which she accepted with a shy courtesy.
As she hurried to the spring house, I watched her admiringly until foosteps behind caused me to turn around. Behold! there was another young lady, tall and becomingly gowned, even prettier than the other. The softness of her brown, lustrous eyes bespoke the tenderness in her nature. Even Don interpreted this when she patted his head and observed: "What a nice dog you have!"
The expression "nice dog" was very familiar to Don, and they were no sooner uttered than the huge dog arose to the occasion by planting his fore-paws against the lady's breast and attempting to steal a kiss.
The shock would have upset her completely if I had not caught her in my arms. It was therefore under somewhat embarrassing circumstances that the dairy maid witnessed the embrace—embarrassing to all save the dog. Explanations will only make matters worse, I thought, so I took the pail and kept mum, though I know I looked anything but innocent.
Business over, we conversed until it began to sprinkle, and then, after accepting the ladies' invitation to spend the evening with them, I cantered back to camp.
"I feared you had gone on to 'Frisco," said Coonskin; "I'm dying for a drink of water."
Indeed, I had forgotten to fill the canteen—all on account of those charming girls. "I declare, Coonskin," I explained, "I had such a time persuading the folks to sell me a little milk that I never thought of water. I'll hurry back for it." And not giving my companion time to anticipate me, or stopping to mount a donkey, I did the errand on foot.
That evening we passed a pleasant hour with "wine, women and song," and departed with another invitation to a fish and game dinner next day, if I would tarry and provide trout and birds. Of course, I tarried. Coonskin accompanied me into the canyon next morning with rod and line, and in the afternoon with gun and bag. By five he had caught a nice mess of trout and I had shot a young jack-rabbit.
It was a delicious repast that was served us by those New England girls. We ate fish till their tails stuck out of our mouths. The bread tasted like angel's food, and the beans were well done, in spite of the fact it required a whole day to cook beans in that altitude.
I smacked my lips and said to myself: "I'll eat heartily now, for it'll be long before I'll get another dinner like this."
On the way to the Springs next day I suggested to Coonskin that we climb the Peak and see the sun rise.
"Why, is sunrise up there any finer than it is down here?" he inquired.
I thought he was making a mental calculation of the number of steps, and labored breaths, and obsolete words the ascent would require.
"Certainly," I said, "the reflections to be seen from that altitude are more beautiful and varied than from the plains."
"They're more beautiful perhaps, but I've been riding a mule over three months now, and my reflections are about as varied as anything could make 'em."
My donkey party reached Colorado Springs in time for dinner.