The Prospector and the Silver Queen (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74521 ***

Copyrighted 1894, by Cy Warman,
Denver, Colorado.

The convulsion was over. An oceanhad been displaced. Out of its depthshad risen a hemisphere; not a land finishedfor the foot of man, but a seething,waving mass of matter, surgingwith the mighty forces and energies ofdeep-down, eternal fires. The windstouched the angry billows and leveledout the plains. One last, mighty throe,and up rose the mountains of stone andsilver and gold that stand to tell ofthat awful hour when a continent wasborn. The rain and gentle dew kissedthe newborn world, and it was arrayedin a mantle of green. Forests grew,and the Father of Waters, with all histributaries, began his journey in searchof the Lost Sea.

[10]That miniature race, the Cliff Dwellers,ruled the land, and in the processof evolution, the Red Man, followed byour hero, the Prospector, who brushedaway the mysteries and disclosed thewonders, the grandeur, the riches of theinfant world. Before him the greatestof the earth may well bow their headsin recognition of his achievements. Hismonument has not been reared by thehands of those who build to commemorateheroic deeds, but in thriving villagesand splendid cities you may readthe history of his privation and hardshipand valor. He it was who firstlaid down his rifle to lift from secretivesands the shining flakes of gold thatplanted in the hearts of men the desireto clasp and possess the West.

It was the Prospector who, with acourage sublime, attacked the graniteforehead of the world, and proclaimed[11]that, locked in the bosom of the RockyMountains, were silver and gold, forwhich men strive and die. He strodeinto the dark cañon where the swordof the Almighty had cleft the mountainchain, and climbed the rugged steepswhere man had never trod before, andthere, above and beyond the line thatmarked the farthest reach of the Bluebelland the Pine, he slept with thewhisperings of God. His praises areunsung, but his deeds are recorded onevery page that tells of the progressand glory of the West. He has for hishome the grand mountains and verdantvales, whose wondrous beauty is beyondcompare.

From the day the earth feels the firsttouch of spring, when the first flowerblooms in the valley, all through thesunny summer time, when the hills hidebehind a veil of heliotrope and a world[12]of wild flowers; all through the hazy,dreamy autumn, this land of the Prospectoris marvelously beautiful.

When the flowers fade, and all theland begins to lose its lustre; when thetall grass goes to seed and the windsblow brisker and colder from the west,there comes a change to the Alpinefields, bringing with it all the brightand beautiful colors of the butterfly, allthe rays of the rainbow, all the burningbrilliancy and golden glory of a SaltLake sunset. Now, like a thief atnight, the first frost steals from thehigh hills, touching and tinting thetrees, biting and blighting the flowersand foliage. The helpless columbineand the blushing rose bend to the passionlesskisses of the cold frost, and inthe ashes of other roses their graves aremade.

When the God of Day comes back,[13]he sees upon the silent, saddened faceof Nature the ruin wrought by thetouch of Time. The leaves, by hislight kept alive so long, are blushingand burning, and all the fields areaflame, fired by the fever of death.Even the winged camp robber screamsand flies from the blasted fields wherebloom has changed to blight, and thewillows weep by the icy rills. Allthese wondrous changes are seen by theProspector as he sits on a lofty mountain,where the autumn winds sighsoftly in the golden aspen, shaking thedead leaves down among the witheredgrasses, gathering the perfume of thepines, the faint odor of the dying columbineand wafting them away to thelowlands and out o’er the waste of asun-parched plain.

[14]

FIFTY years and one ago, near FortWayne, Indiana, Nicholas C. Creede,the story of whose eventful life I shallattempt to tell you, first saw the lightof day. When but four years old hisparents removed to the Territory ofIowa, a country but thinly settled andstill in the grasp of hostile tribeswhose crimes, and the crimes of theirenemies, have reddened every river fromthe Hudson to the Yosemite.

In those broad prairies, abounding[16]with buffalo and wild game of everykind, began a career which, followedfor a half century, written down in amodest way, will read like a romance.

When but a mere lad, young Creedebecame proficient in the use of therifle and made for himself a lastingreputation as a successful hunter. Hewas known in the remote settlements asthe crack shot of the Territory, and beingof a daring, fearless nature, spentmuch of his time in the trackless forestand on the treeless plain.

As the years went by, a ceaselesstide of immigration flowed in upon thebeautiful Territory until the localitywhere the Creedes had their home wasthickly dotted with cabins and tents,and fields of golden grain supplantedthe verdure of the virgin sod. As thepopulation increased, game becamescarce, and then, as the recognized[17]leader, young Creede, at the head ofa band of boyish associates, penetratedthe wilds far to the northward in pursuitof their favorite sport. On someof these hunting expeditions theypushed as far north as the Britishline, camping where game was abundant,until they had secured as muchas their horses could carry back to thesettlements.

This life in the western wilds awokein the soul of the young hunter a lovefor adventure, and his whole careersince that time has been characterizedby a strong preference for the dangerand excitement of frontier life.

The facilities for acquiring an educationduring young Creede’s boyhoodwere extremely limited. A smallschool-house was erected about threemiles from his home, and there theboys and girls of the settlement flocked[18]to study the simplest branches under amale teacher, who, the boys said, was“too handy with the gad.” The boyscout might have acquired more learningthan he did, but he had hearttrouble. A little prairie flower bloomedin life’s way, and the young knight ofthe plain paused to taste its perfume.He had no fear of man or beast, butwhen he looked into the liquid, love-liteyes of this prairie princess he wasalways embarrassed. He had walkedand tried to talk with her, but thewords would stick in his throat andchoke him. At last he learned towrite and thought to woo her in aneasier way. One day she entered theschool-room, fresh and ruddy as therosy morn; her cherried lips made redderby the biting breeze; and whenthe eyes of the lass and the lover met,all the pent-up passion and fetteredaffection flashed aflame from her heartto his, and he wrote upon her slate:

[19]The cold, calculating teacher sawthe fire that flashed from her heart toher cheek, and he stepped to her desk.She saw him coming and she spatupon the slate and smote the sentimentat one swift sweep. Then the teacherstormed. He said the very fact thatshe rubbed it out was equal to a confessionof guilt, and he “reckonedhe’d haf to flog her.” A school-mateof Creede’s told this story tome, and he said all the big boys heldtheir breath when the teacher wentfor his whip, and young Creede satpale and impatient. “He’ll never dareto strike that pretty creature,” they[20]thought; “she is so sweet, so gentle,and so good.”

The trembling maiden was not sosure about that as she stepped to thewhipping corner, shaking like an aspen.“Swish” went the switch, the prettyshoulders shrugged, and the younggallant saw two tears in his sweetheart’seyes, and in a flash he stoodbetween her and the teacher and said:“Strike me, you Ingin, and I’ll strikeyou.” “So’ll I, so’ll I,” said adozen voices, and the teacher laid downhis hand.

DEATH came to the Creede familywhen young Creede was but eightyears old. A few years later the youthfound a step-father in the family, andthey were never very good friends.The boy’s home-life was not what hethought it should be, and he bade hismother good-by and started forth toface the world. In that thinly settledcountry, the young man found it verydifficult to secure work of any kind,and more than once he was forced tofancy himself the “merry monarch ofthe hay-mow,” or a shepherd guardinghis father’s flocks, as he lay down tosleep in the cornfield and covered with[22]the stars. The men, for the most part,he said, were gruff and harsh, but thewomen everywhere were his friends,and many a season of fasting wasshortened by reason of a gentle woman’ssympathy and kindness of heart.The brave boy battled with life’sstorms alone; and when but eighteenyears old he set his face to the West.

Omaha was the one bright star inthe western horizon toward which theeyes of restless humanity were turned,and on the breast of the tide of immigrationour young man reached theuncouth capital of Nebraska. Perhapshe had not read these unkind remarksby the poet Saxe:

Omaha was then the great outfittingpoint for the country to the westward,

[24]In the language of Field, “moneyflowed like liquor,” and a man whowas willing to work could find plentyto do; but the rush and bustle of thebusy, frontier town was not in keepingwith the taste of our hero, and he beganto pine for the broad fields andthe open prairie. At first it was allnew and strangely interesting to him;and often, after his day’s work wasdone, he would wander about the town,looking on at the gaming tables andviewing the festivities in the concerthalls; and when weary of the sightsand scenes, he would go forth into thestilly night and walk the broad, smoothstreets till the moon went down. Atlast he resolved to leave its busythrong, and joining a party of wood-choppers,he went away up the riverwhere the willows grew tall and slim.He was busy on the banks of the sullenstream; he felt the breath of Springand the sunshine, and while the wild[25]birds sang in the willows, he wieldedthe ax and was happy.

The wood was easily worked andcommanded a good price at Omaha,and the young chopper soon foundthat he was quite prosperous; was hisown master, and he whistled andchopped while the she-deer fondledher fawn and the pheasant flutterednear him, friendly and unafraid. Oncea week the wood was loaded on a“mackinaw” and floated down to thecity, where barges were always waiting,and where sharp competition oftensent prices way above the expectationof the settlers.

One day, while making one of theseinnocent and profitable trips down theriver, young Creede nearly lost hislife. For some reason, they weretrying to make a landing above thecity, and Creede was in the bow of[26]the boat, pulling a long sweep oarfixed there on a wooden pin. Whileexercising all his strength to turn theboat shoreward in the stiff current, thepin broke, he was thrown headlonginto the water and the boat driftedabove him. As often as he rose tothe surface, his head would strike thebottom of the boat and he would beforced down again. It seemed to him,he said, that the boat was a milelong and moving with snail-like speed.He was finally rescued more deadthan alive, so full of muddy waterthat they had to roll him over awater-keg a long time before he couldbe bailed out and brought back tolife.

When he reached Omaha and receivedhis share of the cash from thesale of the wood, he abandoned that[27]line of labor, and with the restlessnessof spirit and love for adventure whichhas characterized his whole life, againstarted westward.

[28]

INDIAN FIGHTING—THE UNION PACIFIC—BUFFALOHUNTING.

CREEDE’S arrival at the Pawnee IndianReservations on the Loop forkof the Platte River marked an era in hiseventful life. He began at this placea period of seven years’ Indian fightingand scouting, which made himknown in the valley of the Platte,and gave him a fame which wouldhave been world-wide had he, likelater border celebrities, sought for notorietyin print and courted the favorof writers of yellow covered literature.

Being naturally of a retiring, uncommunicativenature, he shrank frompublic attention; and no writer of fiction,or even a newspaper correspondent[30]could wrest from him a single pointon which to hang a sensational story.While genial and sociable among hisassociates on the trail, his lips werelocked when a correspondent was incamp.

At that time the Union Pacific railwaywas in course of construction, andhostile Indians continually harassed theworkers and did all in their power toretard the progress of the work.United States Cavalry troops were putinto the field to protect the workingcorps, and workmen themselves wereprovided with arms for their own defense.The Pawnee Indians were lyingquietly on their reservation, at peacewith the whites, never going forth excepton periodical buffalo hunts, or onthe war-path against their hereditaryenemies, the Sioux.

Under these circumstances was begun[31]the building of a line across the plains.It was here that the now famous “BuffaloBill” made his reputation as a buffalokiller, which has enabled him totravel around the world, giving exhibitionsof life on the western wilds ofAmerica.

Mr. Frank North, then a resident ofthe Pawnee country, and thoroughlyfamiliar with their language and customs,conceived the idea that the Pawneeswould prove valuable allies to theregular troops in battling with the hostileSioux, and with but little difficulty[32]secured governmental authority to enlisttwo or three companies and officerthem with whites of his own choosing.One of the very first men he hit uponwas Creede, whom he made a first lieutenantof one of the companies, a relativeof the organizer being placed incommand with a captain’s rank. Thisman was a corpulent, easy-going fellow,who sought the place for the pay.There was nothing in his nature thatseemed to say to him that he shouldgo forth and do battle with the fearlesshair-lifters of the plain. Even athis worst, two men could hold himwhen the fight was on. He was a verysensible man, who preferred the quietof the camp and the government barberto the prairie wilds and the irate redman.

With Creede it was different. Hewas young and ambitious, and having[33]been brought up by the firm hand ofa step-father, peace troubled his mind.Nothing pleased him more than to havethe captain herd the horses while hewent out with his hand-painted Pawneesto chase the frescoed Sioux. Heset to work assiduously to learn thelanguage of the Pawnees and soon masteredit. By his recklessness in battleand remarkable bravery in every timeof danger, he gained the admirationand confidence of the savage men, whofollowed fearlessly where their leaderled. They looked upon Creede astheir commander, regarding the Captainas a sort of camp fixture, not madefor field work, and many of theirachievements under their favorite leaderawoke amazement in their own breastsand made them a terror to their Indianfoes. If there are those who thinkthese pages are printed to please[34]rather than from a desire to tell thetruth and do justice to a name longneglected, I need but state that itstands to-day as a prominent page ofthe history of Indian warfare in theWest, that during their several yearsof service, the Pawnee scouts werenever defeated in battle. The intrepid,dashing spirit of their white leadersinspired their savage natures with aconfidence in their own powers whichseemed to render them invincible.

Major North was himself a brave,energetic officer, fearless in battle andskilled in Indian craft, and not a fewof his appointments proved to be valuableones from a fighting standpoint.Because he was always with them,sharing their danger and leading fearlesslywhen the fight was fierce, thered scouts came to regard LieutenantCreede as the great “war chief”; and[35]never did they falter a moment whenthey were needed most by the Government.Every perilous expedition wasintrusted to Creede and his invincibles.A favoritism was shown which permittedcertain officers to remain in campaway from danger. They never knewhow proud the Lieutenant was to leadhis gallant scouts. It was a comparativelyeasy road to fame with so bravea band of warriors, and the attendantdanger only served to appease the leader’s appetitefor adventures.

The notable incidents which markedLieutenant Creede’s career during hisseven years’ service as a scout wouldfill many volumes such as this. But afew can be touched upon; just enoughto exhibit his fearless nature and hisoften reckless daring in the face ofdanger.

“READ to me, Jim,” said the sweetgirl-wife of Lieutenant Murie.

“I can’t read long, my love,” said thegallant scout. “I have just learned thatthere is trouble out West and I mustaway to the front. That beardless telegrapher,Dick, has been here with anorder from Major North and they willrun us out special at 11:30 to-night.”

[37]The Lieutenant picked up a collectionof poems and read where he openedthe book:

“Oh, Jim,” she broke in, “why don’tthey try to civilize these poor, huntedIndians? Are they all so very bad?Are there no good ones among them?”

“Yes,” said the soldier, with a halfsmile. “They are all good except thosethat escape in battle.”

“But tell me, love, how long will thisIndian war last?”

“As long as the Sioux hold out,”said the soldier.

At eleven o’clock the young Lieutenantsaid good-by to his girl-wifeand went away.

This was in the ’60’s. The scouts[38]were stationed near Julesburg, whichwas then the terminus of the UnionPacific track. The special engine andcar that brought Lieutenant Muriefrom Omaha, arrived at noon, thenext day after its departure from thebanks of the muddy Missouri.

Murie had been married less thansix months. For many moons thelove-letters that came to camp fromhis sweetheart’s hand had been thesunshine of his life, and now theywere married and all the days ofdoubt and danger were passed.

An hour after the arrival of thespecial, a scout came into camp to saythat a large band of hostile Sioux hadcome down from the foot-hills andwere at that moment standing, as ifwaiting—even inviting an attack, andnot a thousand yards away. If weexcept the officers, the scouts were[39]nearly all Pawnee Indians, who, at thesight or scent of a Sioux, were as restlessas caged tigers. They had made atreaty with this hostile tribe once, andwere cruelly murdered by the Sioux.This crime was never forgotten, andwhen the Government asked the Pawneesto join the scouts they did so.

The scouts did not keep the warriorswaiting long. In less than an hour,Lieutenant Murie was riding in the directionof the Sioux, with LieutenantCreede second in command, followed bytwo hundred Pawnee scouts, who werespoiling for trouble. The Sioux, asusual, outnumbered the Governmentforces, but, as usual, the dash of thedaring scouts was too much for thehostiles and they were forced from thefield.

Early in the exercises, Murie andCreede were surrounded by a party of[40]Sioux and completely cut off from therest of the command. From these embarrassingenvironments they escapedalmost miraculously. All through thefight, which lasted twenty minutes ormore, Creede noticed that Murie actedvery strangely. He would yell andrave like a mad man—dashing here andthere, in the face of the greatest danger.At times he would battle single-handed,with a half dozen of thefiercest of the foe, and his very frenzyseemed to fill them with fear.

[41]When the fight was over, LieutenantMurie called Creede to him and said hehad been shot in the leg. Hastily dismounting,the anxious scout pulled offthe officer’s boot, but could see nowound nor sign of blood. Others cameup and told the Lieutenant that his legwas as good as new; but he insistedthat he was wounded and silently andsullenly pulled his boot on, mounted,and the little band of invincibles startedfor camp. The Pawnees began to singtheir wild, weird songs of victory asthey went along; but they had proceededonly a short distance whenMurie began to complain again, andagain his boot was removed to showhim that he was not hurt. Some ofthe party chaffed him for getting rattledover a little brush like that, and[42]again in silence he pulled on his bootand they continued on to camp.

Dismounting, Murie limped to thesurgeon’s tent, and some of his companionsfollowed him, thinking to have agood laugh when the doctor should sayit was all the result of imagination,and that there was no wound at all.

When the surgeon had examined thelimb, he looked up at the face of thesoldier, which was a picture of pain,and the bystanders could not accountfor the look of tender sympathy andpity in the doctor’s eyes.

Can it be, thought Creede, that he isreally hurt and that I have failed tofind the wound? “Forgive me, Jim,”he said, holding out his hand to thesufferer, but the surgeon waved himaway.

“Why, you—you couldn’t help it,Nick,” said Murie. “You couldn’t[43]kill all of them; but we made itwarm for them till I was shot. Youwon’t let her know, will you?” hesaid, turning his eyes toward the medicalman. “It would break her heart.Poor dear, how she cried and clung tome last night and begged me to staywith her and let the country die foritself awhile. Most wish I had now.Is it very bad, Doctor? Is the bonebroken?”

“Oh no,” said the surgeon. “It’sonly painful; you’ll be better soon.”

“Good! Don’t let her know, willyou?”

They laid him on a cot and heclosed his eyes, whispering as he didso: “Don’t let her know.”

“Where is the hurt, Doctor?”Creede whispered.

“Here,” said the surgeon, touching[44]his own forehead with his finger. “Heis crazy—hopelessly insane.”

All night they watched by his bed,and every few moments he would raiseup suddenly, look anxiously aroundthe tent, and say in a stage whisper:“Don’t let her know.”

A few days later they took himaway. He was not to lead his bravescouts again. His reason failed to return.I never knew what became of hiswife, but I have been told that she isstill watching for the window of hisbrain to open up, when his absent soulwill look out and see her waiting withthe old-time love for him.

One of his old comrades called to seehim at the asylum, a few years ago,and was recognized by the dementedman. To him his wound was as painfulas ever, and as he limped to hisold friend, his face wore a look of[45]intense agony, while he repeated, justas his comrades had heard him repeatan hundred times, this from Swinburne:

“Good-by, Jim,” said the visitor, withtears in his voice.

“Good-by,” said Jim. Then glancingabout, he came closer and whispered:“Don’t let her know.”

It is a quarter of a century sinceMurie lost his reason and was lockedup in a mad-house, and these yearshave wrought wondrous changes. Thelittle projected line across the plain hasbecome one of the great railway systemsof the earth. “Dick,” the beardlessoperator who gave Murie his ordersat Omaha, is now General Manager[46]Dickinson. The delicate and spareyouth, who wore a Winchester and redlight at the rear end of the special, isnow General Superintendent Deuel, andCreede, poor fellow, he would givehalf of his millions to be able tobrush the mysteries from Murie’s mind.

HAD N. C. Creede remained a poorprospector all his days, these pageswould never have been printed. Thatis a cold, hard statement; but it istrue. Shortly after the fickle Goddessof Fortune sat up a flirtation with thepatient prospector, the writer met witha gentleman who had served on theplains with the man of whom you arereading, and he told some interestingstories. We became very well acquaintedand my interest in the hunter,scout, prospector and miner increasedwith every new tale told by his companionon the plains. Those who knowthis silent man of the mountains arewell aware of his inborn modesty and[48]of the reticence he manifests when questionedabout his own personal experiences.Hence, the writer as well as thereader must rely largely upon the storiestold by his old comrade, the firstof which was this:

A large body of Sioux Indians werecamped near North Platte, Nebraska,having come there to meet some peacecommissioners sent out from Washington.We were camped about eightmiles below them, quietly resting duringthe cessation of hostilities, yet constantlyon the alert to guard against aforay from our foes above. The Siouxand the Pawnees were bitter enemies,constantly at war with each other, andas we knew they were aware of theexistence of our camp, we feared someof them might run down and endeavorto capture our stock. Our best scoutswere sent out every evening in the direction[49]of North Platte to note anyevidences of a night raid that mightappear, and our Indians were instructedto have their arms in perfect order andin easy reach when they rolled up intheir blankets for sleep.

Creede’s horse had become lame andwas next to useless for field work. Wedid not have an extra animal in camp,and for three or four days he triedhard to trade the crippled horse to anIndian scout for a good one. He offeredextravagant odds for a trade, butthe Indians knew too well the nearproximity of a natural enemy andwould take no risks on being withouta mount should trouble come.

We were sitting in the tent one evening,taking a good-night smoke, whensome one began to chaff Creede abouthis “three-legged horse.” Nick took itall good-naturedly, smiling in his own[50]quiet way at our remarks, and soon hesat with his eyes bent on the ground,as if in deep reflection. Suddenly hearose, buckled on his pistols, picked uphis rifle and started from the tent withouta word.

“Where are you going, Nick?” someone asked.

“Going to see that the pickets areout all right,” he replied, as the tentflap closed behind him.

This seemed natural enough, and wesoon turned into our blankets andthought no more of the matter. Whenwe rolled out at daybreak next morning,it was noticed that Creede’s blanketshad not been used and that hewas not in the tent. One of the boysremarked that he had lain down out inthe grass to sleep and would put in anappearance at breakfast time, and we allaccepted this as the true explanation of[51]his absence. Half an hour later, whenwe were about to eat breakfast, one ofthe pickets came in and reported somethingcoming from up the river. Ourfield-glasses soon demonstrated the factthat it was a man riding one horse andleading four others. As he came closer,we recognized Creede, and he soon rodein, dismounted and began to uncinchhis saddle, with the quiet remark:

[52]“Guess I ought to get one goodmount out of this bunch.”

“Where did you get them?” MajorNorth asked.

“Up the river a little ways.”

“How did you get up there?Walk?”

“Not much I didn’t. I rode mylame horse.”

“What did you do with your ownhorse?”

“Traded him for these even up.”

He had gone alone in the night,stolen into the herd of the Sioux nearNorth Platte, unsaddled his lame horseand placed the saddle on an Indian’s,and, leading four others, got away unobservedand reached camp safely. Itwas a bold and desperate undertaking,but one entirely in keeping with his adventurousspirit.

INDIANS OFF THE RESERVATION—ALONEIN CAMP—PROMPT ACTION.

DURING the summer of ’68, a largeparty of Pawnee Indians, men andsquaws, left the reservation on the Loopfork for a buffalo hunt in the countrylying between the Platte and RepublicanRivers. These semi-annual huntswere events of great interest to thetribe, for by them they not only securedsupplies of meat, but also largenumbers of robes, which were tanned bythe squaws and disposed of to tradersfor flour and groceries, and for anyother goods which might strike the Indianfancy.

At this time the Pawnee scouts werelying in camp on Wood River, about a[54]mile from the Union Pacific Railroadstation of that name. The hostileIndians had for some weeks made noaggressive demonstration, and our dutieswere scarcely sufficient to edge up thedull monotony of camp life. Once aweek about half of the company wouldbe sent on a scout to the west alongthe railway, two days’ march, four daysof the week being consumed by theseexpeditions.

Half of the company had gone on thisweekly scout, leaving but one white officerin camp, Lieutenant Creede. Hehad, if I recollect aright, but eighteenmen fit for duty, a number of othersbeing disabled by wounds received inrecent battles. The second day after thehunting party left, the section men fromthe west came into Wood River Stationon their hand-car, and excitedly reportedthat a band of about fifty Sioux had[55]crossed the track near them, headedsouth. Joe Adams was the agent atWood River, and he at once sent amessenger to the Pawnee camp to tellLieutenant Creede of the presence ofthe hostiles. Creede hastily mountedhis handful of warriors, and in less thantwenty minutes was dashing forward onthe trail of the Sioux. The time consumedby the section men in runninginto the station, a distance of about fourmiles, and the consequent delay causedby sending the news to Creede, and thecatching up and saddling of the ponieshad given the Sioux a good start, andwhen the scouts had reached the Plattethe hostiles had crossed over and wereconcealed from view in the sand-hillsbeyond.

Crossing the wide stream with all possiblehaste, the game little ponies, strugglingwith the treacherous quicksand for[56]which that historic river is noted, thescouts struck the trail on the oppositebank and pushed rapidly forward.Although they knew that the Siouxoutnumbered them three to one, thePawnees were eager for the fray—aneagerness shared in by their intrepidcommander. Chanting their war-songs,their keen eyes scanning the countryahead from the summit of each sand-hill,they pushed onward with theremorseless persistence of blood-houndsup the trail of fleeing fugitives.

About three miles from the river, onreaching the top of a sand-hill, the enemywas discovered a mile ahead, movingcarelessly along, oblivious of the factthat they were being pursued. Concealedby the crest of the hill, thePawnees halted to view the situation,and Lieutenant Creede covered the hostileswith his field-glass. An imprecation[57]came from his lips as he studiedthe scene in front, and crying out asentence in the Pawnee tongue, his warriorscrowded about him. His experiencedeye had shown him that theywere Yankton Indians, then at peacewith the whites. He took in the situationin a moment. They had learnedof the departure of the Pawnee villageon a buffalo hunt, and were after themto stampede and capture their horses,kill all of their hated enemy they couldand escape back to their reservation.

All this he told to his warriors, andthe field-glass in the hands of variousmembers of the party corroborated thefact that, as United States scouts, theyhad no right to molest the Yanktonbands. The impetuous warriors chafedlike caged lions, and demanded in vigorousterms that the chase should be resumed.One cool-headed old man, a[58]chief of some importance in the tribe,addressed Lieutenant Creede substantiallyas follows:

“Father; you are a white man, anofficer under the great war chief atWashington, and you would rouse hisanger by battling with Indians not atwar with him and his soldiers. We arePawnee Indians, and the men yonderare our hated foes. They go to attackour people, to kill our fathers, sons,brothers, the squaws and children, andsteal their horses. It is our duty toprotect our people. It is not your dutyto help us. Go back, father, to ourcamp, and we, not as soldiers, but asIndians, will push on to the defense ofour people. Listen to the words of wisdomand go back.”

The situation was a trying one. TheLieutenant well knew that if he led hisscouts against the Yanktons he would[59]have to face serious trouble at Washingtonand meet with severe censurefrom General Augur, then commandingthe Department of the Platte. He realizedthat his official position would beendangered, and that he might evensubject himself to arrest and trial inthe United States Courts for his action.For some moments he stood with his eyesbent upon the ground in deep reflection,the Indians eying him keenly andalmost breathlessly awaiting his reply.It was a tableau, thrilling, well worthythe brush of a painter. The hideouslypainted faces of the Indians scowlingwith rage; their blazing, eager eyes reflectingthe spirit of impatience whichswayed their savage souls; the hardy,faithful ponies cropping at the scantgrass which had pierced the sand; theLieutenant standing as immovable asa rock, his face betraying no trace of[60]excitement, calmly, silently gazing at theground, carefully weighing the responsibilitiesresting upon him,—all went tomake up a picture so intensely thrillingthat the mind can scarcely grasp itswild features.

When the Lieutenant spoke, he did soquietly and calmly. There was a lightin his eyes which boded no good to thepursued, but his voice betrayed not theleast excitement. He said:

“For several years I have been withyou—have been one of you. We haveoften met the enemy in unequal numbers,but we have never been defeated.In all the battles in which I have ledyou, you never deserted me. Should Idesert you now? I know that I willbe censured, perhaps punished, but thoseYanktons shall never harm your people.I will lead you against them as I wouldagainst a hostile band, and on me will[61]rest all the responsibility. We go nowas Pawnee Indians, not as United Statesscouts, and go to fight for our people.Mount!”

Grunts of satisfaction greeted hiswords. They would have been followedby wild yells of savage delight hadthere been no fear of such a demonstrationdisclosing their presence tothe Yanktons. Horses were quicklymounted, and the band again took thetrail with an impatience which couldscarcely be curbed.

The Yanktons were soon againsighted, and the scouts adopted theIndian tactics of stealing upon theirfoes. Skirting the bases of sand-hills,keeping from sight in low groundsand following the bed of gulches, theypressed on, until the enemy was discoveredless than three-fourths of a[62]mile ahead, and yet unconscious of thepresence of a foe.

Halting in a low spot in the hills,the Pawnees hastily unsaddled theirponies and stripped for the fight. Indiansinvariably go into a battle onbareback horses, as saddles impede thespeed of the animals in quick movements.When again mounted, the Lieutenantgave the command to advance.On reaching the crest of a sand-hill,the Pawnees discovered their enemyjust gaining the summit of the next,about five hundred yards distant. TheYanktons discovered their pursuers atthe same moment, and great commotionwas observed in their ranks. Theyhastily formed themselves for battle,and then one of them who could speakEnglish, cried out:

“Who are you, and what do youwant?”

[63]“We are Pawnee Indians, and wewant to know where you are going,”Creede shouted in reply.

“You are Pawnee scouts, and aresoldiers of the United States. We areYankton Sioux at peace with the Government,and you cannot molest us.”

“You are moving against the Pawneevillage, now on a buffalo hunt,”Creede replied. “You want to killour people and steal their horses. Weare Pawnee Indians, and are here tofight for our people. If you take thetrail back across the Platte, we willnot disturb you, but if you attempt tomove forward, we will fight you. Decidequick!”

The leaders of the Yankton bandgathered about the interpreter in council,while Creede interpreted what hadbeen said to his warriors. It waswith difficulty he could restrain them[64]from dashing forward to the attack.In a few moments the Yankton interpretershouted:

“If you attack us, the Governmentwill punish you and reward us forour loss. We do not fear you asPawnees, but we are at peace and donot want to fight you because you aresoldiers of the great father at Washington.We are many and you arefew, and we could soon kill you all,or drive you back to your camp. Goaway and let us alone.”

“You are the enemy of our people,and you go to kill them,” theLieutenant replied. “We will fightfor them, not as soldiers, but as Pawnees.You must make a move now,instantly. We will wait but a minute.If you take the back trail, it will begood. If you move forward, we willmake you halt and go back.”

[65]The only reply was a commandfrom the Yankton leader to his followers,in obedience to which theystarted forward in their original direction.Creede shouted a command tohis men, and with wild yells theydashed down the slope and up theside of the hill on which their enemyhad last been seen. On a level flatbeyond the hill, the Yanktons werefound hastily forming for battle, andwith tiger-like impetuosity, the scoutsdashed forward, firing as they advanced.

The wild dash of the Pawneesseemed to bewilder the Yanktons, andthey were thrown into confusion. Theyquickly rallied, however, and for fullyan half-hour they fought desperately.The mad impetuosity of the Pawneeagain threw them into confusion, andscattering like frightened sheep, theyfled from the field. The Pawnees[66]pursued them, and a running fight wasmaintained over several miles of country.The Yanktons were at last soscattered that they could make noshow of resistance, and with all possiblespeed sought the river crossingand fled toward their agency. It wasafterwards learned that they sustaineda loss of eight killed and quite alarge number wounded. The Pawneeslost but one man killed, but manywere wounded on the field. Severalhorses were killed. Creede’s armyblouse was riddled with bullets andarrows.

Returning from the field, “BobWhite,” a Pawnee, reached Wood Riverin advance of the scouts, and by makingmotions as of a man falling from ahorse, and, repeating the word, “Lieutenant,”created the impression thatCreede had been killed, and the agent[67]telegraphed the news to Omaha, whereit was published in the daily papers.When the scouts reached the station,however, the gallant Lieutenant was attheir head. When he dismounted, itwas observed that he limped painfully,and in explanation said, that in one ofthe charges his horse had fallen uponhim, severely bruising and sprainingone of his legs. This was what “Bob”had tried to tell, but the agent interpretedhis signs to mean that the intrepidleader had been killed in battle.

When the Yanktons reached theiragency, they reported that while quietlymoving across the country, the Pawneescouts, being in the service of the UnitedStates, had attacked them in overwhelmingnumbers and driven them back totheir reservation. The matter was laidbefore the authorities at Washington,referred to General Augur, and by him[68]to Major North, who was already inpossession of Creede’s explanation of theaffair. Considerable red-tape correspondencefollowed, and as the Yanktonswere off their reservation without permission,and in direct violation oforders, the matter was allowed to drop.Creede was doubly a hero in the eyesof his scouts after this episode, andwhen the Pawnee village returned, andit was learned how the Lieutenant hadbattled in their behalf, they bestowedupon him the most marked expressionsof gratitude and adoration.

ONE of the most daring acts in thehistory of this daring man was committedin Western Nebraska in 1866.From boyhood days, he had been notedas a hunter, and during the years whichhe spent in the scouting service, hissplendid marksmanship and extraordinaryachievements in the pursuit ofgame earned for him the reputation ofbeing the best hunter west of the MissouriRiver. His success in that linewas phenomenal and elicited expressionsof surprise from all who had a knowledgeof his work, and from those whowere told of it.

[70]Killing buffalo was not regarded byCreede, or by any of the hunters, as thebest evidence of skill in marksmanshipor in hunting. Any one who could ridea horse and fire a rifle or revolvercould kill those clumsy, shaggy animalsmuch easier than they could pursue andkill the ordinary steers on the westernranges to-day. In fact, the range steeris a far more dangerous animal whenenraged than was the buffalo, for itpossesses greater activity, and is morefleet of foot. The men who havegained notoriety on account of thenumber of buffalo they have killed arelooked upon with quiet contempt bythe true hunters of the plains andmountains, who justly claim that huntingexcellence can only be shown in thestill hunt, where tact and skill are requiredto approach within shooting distanceof the elk, deer or antelope, and[71]proficient marksmanship is necessary tokill it. When buffalo were plenty onthe western plains, it was not at allunusual for women to ride after andkill them, and incur little, if any, riskof personal danger. Miss Emma Woodruff,a school teacher on Wood River inthe sixties, and who afterwards marrieda telegraph operator at Wood RiverStation, became quite noted as a buffalohunter, and regarded it but as an ordinaryachievement to mount her ponyand kill one of the shaggy monsters.The long-haired showmen who infestthe country and tell thrilling stories oftheir desperate adventures and narrowescapes while hunting the buffalo, drawlargely upon their imagination for baitto throw out to the gullible. No onein a dozen of them ever reached thewest bank of the Missouri River.Every frontier man will agree that the[72]so-called scouts, cowboys and Indianfighters who pose in dime museums,dime novels or behind theatrical foot-lights,are in nearly every instance themost shameless frauds, whose long hairand unlimited “gall” make them heroesin unexperienced eyes. Since the deathof Kit Carson, but one long-haired manhas earned a reputation as a scout, andwhile he was once, for a brief season,allured into the dramatic business, andnow gives platform entertainments whenhis duties will permit him to do so, heis not a showman, but is yet in Governmentemploy. He is a trusted secretagent of the Department of Justice, andis engaged in a calling almost as dangerousas was his scouting service—thatof running down the desperate menwho are engaged in selling liquor toIndians. Long hair is the exceptionand not the rule among scouts, and a[73]cowboy who permits his locks to clusterover his shoulders is laughed at by hisfellow knights of the saddle and classedas a crank.

You shall read this story as it fellfrom Creede’s own lips when I pressedhim to tell it to me. It was this incidentwhich first gained from him thefull confidence and unstinted admirationof the Indian scouts:

“Game, through some cause, was veryscarce near our camp, and one day Isaddled my favorite horse and rodesouthward, determined to get meat ofsome kind before returning. I wentabout fifteen miles from camp, andafter hunting some four or five hourswithout success, made up my mind thegame had all left the country. I startedto return by a circuitous route, desiringto cover as large a scope of country aspossible, and get some meat if it was[74]at all to be found. After travelingperhaps an hour through the sand-hills,I came upon a fresh trail of ponytracks, and I knew the tracks weremade by Indian ponies, and hostileIndians, too, for none of our scoutswere away from camp. I determinedto follow the trail and ascertain if theponies all bore riders, and, if possible,to get close enough unobserved to seefrom the appearance of the Indians whothey were, and if it was a hunting orwar party. They were headed in thedirection in which I desired to go, andafter tightening up my saddle cinchesand looking to see if my pistols werein order, I took the trail. I judgedfrom the trail that there were abouttwenty-five or thirty Indians in theparty, and I soon learned that my estimatewas a nearly correct one.

“When I reached the top of the first[75]little hill ahead of me, I came in fullview of the party not more than aquarter of a mile distant. They sawme at the same time, as I knew fromthe confusion in their ranks. I tellyou, in a case of that kind, one wantsto do some quick thinking, and if evera man jogged his brain for a schemeto get out of an ugly scrape, I didright then and there. If I tried torun, I knew they would scatter and getme, and in less time than ittakes me to tellit, I had mademy plan andstarted to put[76]it into execution. I saw that my onlychance, though a desperate one, wouldbe to make them believe I was aheadof a party in their pursuit, andtaking off my hat, I made franticmotions to the rear, as if hurrying upa body of troops, and then, puttingspurs to my horse, dashed right towardthem, and when close enough, beganfiring at them with my rifle. Thescheme worked beautifully, for withoutfiring a shot, they seemed to becometerror-stricken and fled on through thehills. The course lay through low sand-hillswhich often concealed them fromview, but I pressed on, firing at everychance. I chased them for fully threemiles; two of them died and I capturedthree ponies which fell behind, and thenleft the trail and made for camp. Ifound it hard to make the scouts believemy story, and some of them quite[77]plainly hinted that I had found theponies in the hills and had seen noIndians. I saw at once that theydoubted me, and determined to convincethem of the truth of what I hadtold them. The next morning I took adozen or more of them and went backto the scene of the chase, and we werenot long in finding all the coyotes hadleft of the two bodies.

“That affair firmly established myreputation with the scouts, and everafter they fully relied on my judgmentas a war chief. Through all our futureoperations, they trusted me implicitly,and would follow me any place I choseto lead them.”

IN the early springtime, at that timeof the year when all the world growsglad; when the green grass springsfrom the cold, brown earth; when newflowers bloom on the graves of otherroses; when every animal, man, bird andbeast, each to his own kind turns witha look of love and tender sympathy,we find the restless Red Men of thePlains on the war-path.

One day at sunset, Lieutenant Creederode out from Ogallala, where the scoutswere stationed, guarding the railwaybuilders. It was customary for some[79]one to take a look about at the closeof day, to see if any stray Siouxwere prowling around. About six milesfrom camp, he came to a clump oftrees covering a half dozen acres ofground. Through this grove the scoutrode, thinking perhaps an elk or deermight be seen; but nothing worthshooting was sighted, till suddenly hefound himself at the farther edge of thewood and on the banks of the Platte.Looking across the stream, he saw asmall band of hostile Sioux riding inthe direction of the river, and not morethan a mile away. His field-glassesshowed him that there were seven ofthe Sioux, and without the aid of thatinstrument, he could see that they hada majority of six over his party. Theywere riding slowly in the direction ofthe camp. Creede concluded that theyintended to cross over, kill the guards,[80]and capture the Government horses.His first thought was to ride back tocamp, keeping the clump of trees betweenhim and the Indians, andarrange a reception for the Sioux.

The river was half a mile wide andthree feet deep. Horses can’t travelvery rapidly in three feet of water.

In a short time they had reached thewater’s edge and the scout could hardlyresist the temptation to await theirapproach, dash out, take a shot atthem, and then return to camp. Thatwas dangerous, he thought; for, if hegot one, there would still be a half adozen bullets to dodge. A better planwould be to leave his horse in thegrove, crawl out to the bank, lie concealedin the grass until the enemy waswithin sixty yards of him, then standup and work his Winchester. The firstshot would surprise them. They would[81]all look at their falling friend; thesecond would show them where he was,and the third shot would leave butfour Indians. By the time they swungtheir rifles up another would havepassed to the Happy Land, and oneman on shore, with his rifle working,was as good as three frightened Indiansin the middle of the river.

Thus reasoned the scout, and hecrept to the shore of the stream. Hehad no time to lose, as the Indianponies had finished drinking and werealready on the move.

As the sound of the sinking feet ofthe horses grew louder, the hunter wasobliged to own a feeling of regret. Ifhe could have gotten back to his horsewithout them seeing him, he thoughtit would be as well to return tocamp and receive the visitors there.Just once he lifted his head above the[82]grass, and then he saw how useless itwould be to attempt to fly, for theIndians were but a little more than ahundred yards away. Realizing thathe was in for it, he made up hismind to remain in the grass until theSioux were so near that it would beimpossible to miss them. Nearer andnearer sounded the plunkety-plunk ofthe unshod feet of the little horses inthe shallow stream, till at last theyseemed to be in short-rifle range, andthe trained hunter sprang to his feet.He had reckoned well, for the Indianswere not over sixty yards away, ridingtandem. Creede’s rifle echoed in thelittle grove; the lead leaped out andthe head Indian pitched forward intothe river. The riderless horse stoppedshort. The rifle cracked again, andthe second Red Man rolled slowlyfrom the saddle; so slowly that he[83]barely got out of the way in time topermit the next brave, who was almostdirectly behind him, to get killed whenit was his turn. The remaining fourIndians, instead of returning the fire,sat still and stone-like, so terrifiedwere they that they never raised ahand. Two more seconds; two moreshots from the trusty rifle of the scoutand two more Indians went down, headfirst, into the stream. Panic-stricken,the other two dropped into the riverand began to swim down stream withall their might. They kept an eye onthe scout and at the flash of his gunthey ducked their heads and the ballbounded away over the still water.Soon they were beyond the reach ofthe rifle. Returning to their own sideof the river, they crept away in thetwilight, and the ever sad and thoughtfulscout stood still by the silent[84]stream, watching the little red pools ofblood on the broad bosom of theslowly running river.

Three of the abandoned bronchosturned back. Four crossed over toCreede and were taken to camp.

The two sad and lonely Sioux hadgone but a short distance from theriver, when one of them fell faintingand soon bled to death. He had beenwounded by a bullet which had passedthrough one of his companions whowas killed in the stream. The remainingIndian was afterwards captured inbattle and he told this story to hiscaptors, just as it was told to thewriter by the man who risked his lifeso fearlessly in the service of UncleSam.

DURING the month of May, 1865,the scouts were given permissionto go with the Pawnees on their annualbuffalo hunt. The Pawnees were greatlypleased, for where there are buffaloesthere are Indians; and the Sioux wereever on the lookout for an opportunityto drop in on the Pawnees when theywere least expected. Late one afternoona party, eight in number, of thescouts became separated from the mainforce during the excitement incident toa chase after buffaloes; and, before theyhad the slightest hint of danger, werecompletely surrounded by a band of at[86]least two hundred Sioux. The hunterswere in a small basin in the sand-hillswhile the low bluffs fairly bristled withfeathers. The Sioux would dash forward,shoot, and then retreat. LieutenantCreede, two other white men andfive Pawnees composed the party ofscouts. This little band formed a circleof their horses, but at the first chargeof the savage Sioux, the poor animalssank to the sand and died. The scoutsnow crouched by the dead horses, andhalf a dozen Sioux fell during the nextcharge. One savage who appeared tobe more fearless than the rest, dashedforward, evidently intending to rideover the little band of scouts. Alasfor him! there were besides the Lieutenant,three sure shots in that little circle,and before this daring brave had gottenwithin fifty yards of the horse-works, abullet pierced his brain. Instead of[87]dropping to the ground and dying asmost men do, this Indian began to leapand bound about, exactly like a chickenwith its head cut off, never stoppinguntil he rolled down within fifteen feetof the scouts.

There was a boy in Creede’s party,Sit-ta-re-kit by name, a very intelligentPawnee, eighteen years old, who hadgone with the Lieutenant to Washingtonto see the President of the UnitedStates. There seemed to be no shadowof hope for the scouts; and this youngman started to run. Inasmuch as hestarted in the direction of the camp,which was but a mile away, it is butfair to suggest that he may have takenthis fatal step with the hope of notifyingthe Pawnees of the state of affairs.This was the opinion of LieutenantCreede; while others thought he wasdriven wild by the desperate surroundings.[88]He had gone less than a hundredyards when a Sioux rode up besidehim and felled him to the groundwith a war club. The young scoutstarted to rise, was on his knees, whenthe Sioux, having dismounted, reachedfor the scout’s hair with his left hand.All this was seen by the boy’s companions.

“Oh, it was awful!” said Creede, relatingthis story to the writer. “Wehad been together so much. He was[89]so brave, so honest and so good. Ofcourse, he was only an Indian; but Ihad learned to love him, and when Isaw the steel blade glistening in thesetting sun—saw the savage at oneswift stroke sever the scalp from thatbrave boy’s head, I was sick at heart.”After he had been scalped, the boy gotup and walked on, right by the savageSioux. He was safe enough now.Nothing on earth would tempt an Indianto touch a man who had beenscalped, not even to kill him.

A Pawnee squaw was working in thefield one day when a Sioux came downand scalped her. She knew if she returnedto her people she would bekilled. It was not fashionable to keepshort-haired women about; and, in herdesperate condition, she wandered backto the agency. The agent was sorryfor her and he took her in and cured[90]her head and sent her back to her people.But they killed her; she hadbeen scalped.

But let us return to the little bandin the basin surrounded by the Sioux.It is indeed a small band now. Fourof them are dead, one scalped and gone;but as often as their Winchesters bark,a Sioux drops. There was nothing leftfor them now but to fight on to theend.

Death in this way was better thanbeing burned alive. There was nohope—not a shadow; for, how werethey to know that one of their companionshad seen the Sioux surroundthem and that the whole force of Pawneescouts were riding to the relief ofthis handful of men, who were amusingthemselves at rifle practice while theywaited for death.

With a wild yell, they dashed down[91]upon the murderous Sioux, and, withoutfiring a shot, they fled from the field,leaving thirteen unlucky Indians uponthe battle ground.

The brave boy never returned. Hetook his own life, perhaps; for an Indiannever cares to live after he haslost his scalp, knowing that his companionslook upon him as they lookupon the dead.

N. C. CREEDE, the Prince of Prospectorsand new-made millionaire,is one of the gentlest men I haveever met, notwithstanding most of hislife has been spent in scenes not conduciveto gentleness. His friendship isloyal and lasting; and he is as true toa trust as the sunflower is to the sun.Although a daring scout and fearlessIndian fighter, he is as tender and sympatheticas the hero of the “Light ofAsia.”

Creede and I were traveling by thesame train one day, when he asked meif I knew a certain soldier-man—aCaptain Somebody; and I said, “No.”

[93]“I raised my rifle to kill him oneday and an Indian saved his life,” saidhe, musingly.

I looked at the sad face of my companionin great surprise. I couldhardly believe him capable of taking ahuman life, and I asked him to tell methe story.

“It was in ’65, I believe,” he began.“We had just captured a village on atributary of the Yellowstone, and werereturning to our quarters on PoleCreek. Just before going into camp,we came upon five stray Sioux, whohad been hunting and were returningto their camp on foot. Two of theSioux were killed and three captured.On the following morning, GeneralAugur, who was in command, gaveorders to my Captain to take thirtypicked scouts and go on an exploringtrip, and to take the three captives[94]with us, giving special orders to seethat none of the prisoners escaped.

“When everything was in readiness,the three Sioux were brought out andplaced on unsaddled ponies, with theirhands tied behind them. Not a wordcould they utter that we could understand;but O, the mute pleading andsilent prayers of those poor captives!It was a dreary April morning; theclouds hung low and the very heavensseemed ready to weep for the poor,helpless Indians.

“I don’t know why they did, butevery few moments, as we rode slowlyand silently across the dank plain, theywould turn their sad eyes to me, sofull of voiceless pleading that I foundit was impossible to hold my peacelonger. Riding up to the side of theCaptain, I asked him what he intendedto do with the captives. ‘Wait and[95]you will see,’ was his answer.‘What,’ said I, ‘you don’t mean tokill them? That would be cold-bloodedmurder.’ ‘I’ll see that they don’t getaway,’ said the cruel Captain. Ithought if he would only give them ashow, and suggested that we let themgo two hundred yards, untie theirhands and tell them to fly; but to thisproposition he made no reply. Then wewent on silently, the poor captives ridingwith bowed heads, dreaming day-dreams,no doubt, of leafy arboles andrunning streams; of the herds of buffalothat were bounding away o’er the distantplain.

“The scouts were all Pawnees, andtheir hatred for the Sioux dated fromthe breaking of a treaty by the latter,some time previous. After the treatyhad been completed, the two tribesstarted on a buffalo hunt. When they[96]arrived at the Republican River, andthe Pawnees had partly crossed, andthe rest were in the stream, the Siouxopened fire upon them and slew themwithout mercy. The Pawnee were dividedinto three bands by this treacherousslaughter and never got togetherafterward. The bitterest hatred existedbetween the two tribes, and the Governmentwas using one to suppress theother.

“The three captives would never havesurrendered to the Pawnees had theynot seen the white men, to whom theylooked for mercy. How unworthy theywere of this confidence, we shall soonsee.

“The Pawnees were by no meansmerciful. I have heard them tell often,how they skinned a man alive at Rawhide,a little stream in Nebraska, withall the gruesome and blood-curdling[97]gestures. The white man, the victim ofthe skinners, had made a threat thathe would kill the first Indian he saw.It happened to be a squaw; but theman kept his word. His rifle crackedand the squaw dropped dead. Thetrain had gone but a few miles whenthe Indians overtook the wagons andforced them to return to the scene ofthe shooting, where they formed a circle,led the victim to the center, andactually skinned him alive, while hiscompanions were compelled to lookon.”

I agreed that all this was interesting;but insisted upon hearing the story ofthe cruel Captain and the captives.

“Oh, yes,” said the prospector.“Well, I had dropped back a few feet,two of the naked Indians were ridingin front of the Captain, when he liftedhis pistol; it cracked and I saw a little[98]red spot in the bare back of one ofthe bound captives. His fettered armsraised slightly; his head went back,and he dropped from the horse, dead.The pistol cracked again: Another littlered spot showed up between the shouldersof the other Indian. I felt thehot blood rush to my face, and impulsivelyraised my rifle—mechanically, asthe natural helper of the oppressed—whena Pawnee, who was riding at my[99]side, reached out, grasped my gun,and said, ‘No shoot ’im.’

“The third captive, who was ridingbehind with the Indian scouts, attemptedto escape, seeing how his companionswere being murdered, but waskilled by the guard.

“The Captain dismounted and scalpedthe two victims with a dull pocket-knife,and afterward told how theyrolled up their eyes and looked at himlike a dying calf.

“I could tell you more; but when Ithink of that murder, it makes me sickat heart, and I can see that awfulscene enacted again.”

MR. CREEDE’S success is due largelyto his lasting love for the mountains,which was love at first sight. Itwas in 1862 that the scouts wereordered to Dakota; and it was then hesaw for the first time the grand oldRockies. They were nearing the BigHorn Range, and the sight of snow inAugust was something the Indians ofthe plains could not understand. Infact, they insisted that it was not snow,but white earth, and offered to staketheir savings on the proposition. Someof them were foolish enough to bettheir ponies that there was no snow onthe ground in summer time. Late that[101]evening they camped at the foot of therange, and on the following morning,four men were sent up to investigateand decide the bets. The result was achange of horses, in which the Indiansgot the worst of the bargain. Fornearly a week they lingered in theshadows of the coolingmountains and wereloth to leavethem.

[102]When, some years later, the scoutswere mustered out of service, Creedereturned to his old home in Iowa. Buthe soon tired of the dull, prosy lifethey led there; and, remembering thescent of wild flowers and the balmybreeze that blew down the cool cañonsof the Big Horn Mountains, he determinedto return to the region of theRockies. Already he had seen hisshare of service, it would seem. Formore than a dozen years he had sleptwhere night had found him, with noplace he could call his home; and yetthere are still a dozen years of doubtand danger through which he mustpass. For him the trail that leads tofortune and fame, is a long one; andmany camps must be made between hispallet on the plains and his mansionby the sea. The path of the prospector,like that of the poet, lies in a[103]stony way, and nothing is truer thanthe declaration that:

THE life of a prospector is onefraught with hardships and privationsand, in locations infested by Indians,often one of peril. But in hissearch for the precious metals, thehardy prospector gives but littlethought to personal danger. With hisbedding, tools and provisions, packedupon the backs of trusty little burros,he turns from the haunts of men andplunges into the trackless wilds of themountains. Guided by the star of hope,he pursues his ceaseless explorations inthe face of hardships which wouldappall any heart not buoyed up by akeen expectation of “striking it rich”[105]in the near future, and springing atone bound from poverty to wealth.

Of the great army of prospectorsconstantly seeking to unearth the vasttreasure hidden in the rocky breast ofthe mountain ranges of the West, fewattain a realization of the hopes whichlead them onward, and secure thewealth for which they so persistentlytoil. The instances are very rare inwhich the prospector has reaped anadequate reward for his discoveries.In the great majority of cases wherereally valuable leads have been located,the discoverers, not possessing the capitalnecessary to develop them, haveaccepted the first offer for their purchase,and have sold for a mere songproperties which have brought millionsto those who secured them. The mostnotable instance in the annals of miningin the West, where fortune has[106]rewarded the prospector for his labors,is that in which figures Mr. N. C.Creede. His is a life tinged with romancefrom boyhood to the presenttime. This story may serve as an incentiveto less fortunate prospectors topush onward with renewed hopes; forin the great mountain ranges of theWest, untold riches yet lie hidden fromthe eye of man.

The register at the Drover’s Hotel,Pueblo, if it had a register, held thename of N. C. Creede, some time in thefall of 1870. He marveled much at theMexicans. For years he had livedamong the Indians and was well acquaintedwith many tribes; but thisdark, sad-faced man, was a new sort ofRed Skin.

Pueblo in ’70, was not the city wesee there to-day. It was a dreary clusterof adobe houses, built about a big[107]cotton-wood tree on the banks of apoor little river that went creepingaway toward the plain, pausing inevery pool to rest, having run all theway from Tennessee Pass over a rockyroad through the Royal Gorge.

Less than thirty summers hadbrought their bloom to him, but hefelt old. Life was long and the sevenyears of hard service on the plains hadmade him a sad and silent man. Somuch of sorrow, so much of sufferinghad he seen that he seldom smiled andwas much alone. Away from his oldcompanions, a stranger in a strange land,he looked away to the snow-cappedcrest of the Sangre de Christo andsaid: “There will I go and find myfortune.” Then he remembered he waspoor. But he was young, strong andwilling to work, and he soon foundemployment with Mr. Robert Grant,[108]who was very kind to this lone man inmany ways. For six months he laboredand looked away to the mountains,whose stony vaults held a fortune andfame for him. In the spring of 1871,the amateur prospector went away tothe hills and spent the summer hunting,fishing and looking for quartz.After this, life away from the grandold mountains was not the life for him.Here was his habitation. This shouldbe his home.

THE winter of 1871-2 was spent atDel Norte, and in the followingspring Creede, with a party of prospectors,went to Elizabethtown, New Mexico.This town was a new one, butwas attracting considerable attention asa placer field. Like a great many othermining camps, the place was overdone,and unless a man had money to liveon, the outlook was not very cheerful.Finding no work to do the young prospectorstaked a placer claim and commencedoperations single-handed andalone, and the end of the third day,cleaned up and found himself in possession[110]of nine dollars’ worth of golddust. This gave him new courage. Heworked all the summer; but when wintercame on, he discovered that afterpaying his living expenses which arealways lofty in a new camp, he hadonly made fair wages; the most hehad made in a single day was ninedollars.

The winter following found the prospectorin Pueblo again, working foranother stake, this time in the employof Mr. George Gilbert. Early in thespring of 1873, he took the trail.Upon this occasion, he found his wayto Rosita in Custer County where thefamous Bassick Mine was afterward discovered,and within a few miles of SilverCliff, which was destined to attractthe attention of so many prospectors,bringing into the mining world somuch shadow and so little shine.

[111]From Rosita he went to the SanJuan district and prospected for severalmonths, returned to the east side of therange, and finally made a second tripto the San Juan, but found nothingworth the assessment work.

About this time the Gunnison countrybegan to attract attention and withother fortune-seekers Creede went there.This trip, like all his prospecting tourswest of the “Great Divide” pannedpoorly. Never did he make a discoveryof importance on the western slope,and now he made a trip to Leadville.Here he met with a well-defined streakof hard luck. After hunting in vainfor a fortune, he was taken with pneumonia,lingered for a long timebetween life and death, but finallyrecovered. If Creede had died then,he would have received, probably, fourlines in the Herald, which would have[112]been to the effect that a prospector haddied of pneumonia in his cabin at thehead of California Gulch, and had beendead some time when discovered, asthe corpse was cold and the fire out.He was of no great importance at thattime, but since then he has marchedfrom Monarch to the banks of the RioGrande, leaving a silver trail behindhim, until at last, standing on the sun-kissedsummit of Bachelor mountain,he can look back along the trail andsee the camp-fires that he lighted withtired hands, trembling in the cold,burning brightly where the wasteplaces have been made glad by thebuilding of hundreds of happy homes.

Creede has labored long and faithfullyfor what he has, never shrinkingfrom the task the gods seem to haveset before him. Almost from his infancyhe has been compelled to do[113]battle with the world alone, and thewriter is proud of the privilege of tellingthe story of his life, giving creditwhere credit is due, and putting thestamp of perfidity upon the band ofstool-pigeons who have camped on histrail for the purpose of claiming creditfor what he did.

FOREST fires started by the Indians,carelessly or out of pure deviltry,had swept the hills to the east of thedivide in Chaffee County, and sufficienttime had elapsed to allow a pompadourof pine to grow in the crest of thecontinent, so thick that it was almostimpenetrable. In July, 1878, havingchopped a trail through this forest,Creede came to the head of the littlestream where the prosperous town ofMonarch now stands. For thirteen daysthe prospector was there alone, not asoul nearer than Poncha Springs, fifteenor twenty miles away.

[115]Elk, deer and bear were there inabundance, and the prospector had littledifficulty in supplying himself withfresh meat. In fact, the bear weremost too convenient,—they insistedupon coming in and dining with thesilver-seeker.

Creede located a claim, called it theMonarch, and gave the same name tothe camp. Among the first claims locatedwas one called the “LittleCharm.” It proved to be a good property—butnot till it had passed intoother hands. The formation in theMonarch district was limestone, and inlimestone the prospector never knowswhat he has. To-day he may be inpay ore and to-morrow pick it all out.Creede had picked out some promisingprospects in the same formation. Hehad discovered the Madonna, but hadmore than he could handle. He[116]took Smith and Gray up there andtold them where to dig; they dugand located the Madonna claim.They kept it and worked theassessments for five yearsand then sold it to Eylersof Pueblo forsixty thousanddollars.

[117]The ore is very low grade, but wasof great value to these men, who weresmelters, for the lead it carried.

By the time the snow began to fallthere were a number of prospectors inthe new camp, and having tired of theplace, which was one of the hardest,roughest regions in the state, Creedesold what claims he had for one thousandseven hundred dollars, but returnedevery summer for five years,cleaning up in all about three thousanddollars.

In Monarch, as in his last success,there were a number of jealous minerswho wanted the name of the campchanged.

They were, or most of them, at least,light-weight politicians, who didn’t carea cent what the town was called solong as they had the honor of namingit, but the name was never changed.

LEAVING Monarch, the prospectorjourneyed through Poncha Pass, overinto the San Luis Valley, and began toclimb the hills behind the Sangre deChristo range. On a little stream calledSilver Creek he made a number of locations,among them the Bonanza, and hecalled the new camp by that name, justas he named Monarch after what heconsidered his best claim. The countryhere was more accessible and consequentlya more desirable field for prospecting.South of Bonanza, Creedelocated the “Twin Mines,” which provedto be good property. The ore in the[119]twin claims carried two ounces of goldto the ton.

A year later when the pioneer prospectordecided to pull out and seeknew fields, he was able to realize fifteenthousand dollars in good, hard-earnedmoney. One claim was sold for twothousand dollars, the money to be depositedin Raynolds’ bank at Salida;but the purchasers for some reason insistedthat the money be deposited in aPoncha bank, very little known at thattime, but whose president shortly afterwardkilled his man and became well,but not favorably, known. Creede’s twothousand dollars went to the banker’slawyers. The bank closed, and nowyou may see the ex-president in a littlemountain town pleading at the bar—notthe bar of justice.

The camp has never astonished themining world, but it has furnished[120]employment for a number of people,and that is good and shows that theWest and the whole world is richerand better because of the discoveriesof Creede.

Creede now determined to see a little,and learn something of mining in othersections of the West. Leaving Colorado,he traveled through Utah, Nevada, Arizonaand California, prospecting andstudying the formation of the countryin the different mining camps. Theknowledge gained on this trip provedvaluable to the prospector in afteryears. This was his school. The wideWest was his school-house, and Naturewas his teacher.

AN old prospecting partner of Mr.Creede’s told the following storyto the writer, after the discovery of theAmethyst, which lifted the discovererinto prominence, gave him fame and abank account—and gave every adventuresswho heard of his fortune, a newfield:

A man by the name of Chester,Creede and I were prospecting in SanMiguel County, Colorado, in the 80’s.We had our camp in a narrow cañonby a little mountain stream. It wassummer time; the berries were ripe,and bear were as thick as sheep inNew Mexico. About sunset one evening[122]I called Creede out to show him acow which I had discovered on a steephillside near our cabin.

The moment the Captain saw the animalhe said in a stage whisper: “Bear!”I thought he was endeavoring to frightenme; but he soon convinced me thathe was in earnest.

Without taking his eyes from theanimal, he spoke again in the samestage whisper, instructing me to hastenand bring Chester with a couple ofrifles. When I returned with the shootingirons I gave the one I carried toCreede, who instructed me to climbupon a sharp rock that stood up likea church spire in the bottom of thecañon. From my high place I was tosignal the sharp-shooters, keeping themposted as to the movements of the bear.

“You come with me,” said Creede tothe man who stood at his side. It[123]occurred to me now for the first timethat there was some danger attached tothis sport. I couldn’t help wonderingwhat would become of me in case thebear got the best of my two partners.

If the bear captured them and gotpossession of the only two guns in thecamp, my position on that rock wouldbecome embarrassing, if not actuallydangerous. I turned to look at Chester,who did not seem to start whenCreede did. Poor fellow, he was aspale as a ghost. “See here,” he said,addressing the man who was lookingback, smiling and beckoning him on ashe led the way down toward the noisylittle creek which they must cross toget in rifle range of the bear, “I’m aman of a family, an’ don’t see why Ishould run headlong into a fight with agrizzly bear. I suppose if I was a singleman, I would do as you do; but[124]when I think of my poor wife anddear little children, it makes me homesick.”Creede kept smiling and beckoningwith his forefinger. I laughedat Chester for being so scared. Hefinally followed, after asking me to lookafter his family in case he failed toreturn. Just as a man would who wason his way to the Tower.

Having reached the summit of therock, I was surprised to see the bigbear coming down the hill, headed forthe spot where the hunters stood counselingas to how they should proceed.I tried to shout a warning to them, butthe creek made such a fuss falling overthe rocks that they were unable to hearme.

A moment more and she hove insight, coming down the slope on a longgallop. Probably no man living everhad such an entertainment as I was[125]about to witness. In New York tenthousand people would pay a hundreddollars a seat to see it; but there wasno time to bill the country—the curtainwas up and the show was on. Creede,who was the first to see the animal,shot one swift glance at his companion,raised his rifle, a Marlin repeater, andfired. The great beast shook her head,snorted, increased her pace and boredown upon her assailants. Again andagain Creede’s rifle rang out upon theevening air, and hearing no report fromChester’s gun, he turned, and to hishorror, saw his companion, rifle in hand,running for camp. Many a man wouldhave wasted a shot on the deserter, butCreede was too busy with the bear, evenif he had been so inclined. Less thanforty feet separated the combatantswhen Creede turned, and at the nextshot I was pleased to see the infuriated[126]animal drop and roll upon the ground.In another second she was up again,and she looked more like a ball ofblood than an animal. Now she stoodup for the final struggle. I saw Creedetake deliberate aim at her breast. Hefired and she fell. I shouted with joyas I thought she must be dead now,but was surprised to see that Creedewas still shooting. As rapidly as Iclapped my hands his rifle shouted, andhe put four more great leaden missilesinto the body of the bear.

With that unaccountable strength thatcomes to man and beast in the lastgreat struggle, the mad monster stoodup again. Nothing on earth or underthe earth could be more awful in appearancethan was this animal. Oneeye had been forced from the socket,and stood out like a great ball of fire.Blood fairly gushed from her open[127]mouth, and the coarse, gurgling, stranglingsound that came from the floodedthroat, was so awful that it fairly chilledthe blood in my veins. For a secondshe stood still and glared at her adversaryas if she would rest or get abreath before springing upon him.

Again I saw the hunter take deliberateaim. This time he aimed at theopen mouth, the ball crashed upthrough the brain and the bear droppeddead.

I did not shout now. This was thethird time I had seen him kill thatsame bear, and I expected her to get upagain. Creede was not quite satisfied,for I saw him hastily filling his magazine;and it was well.

The hunter stepped up to the greatdead animal and placed his feet uponher, as hunters are wont to do, whenanother danger confronted him.

[128]Attracted by the shooting and thecoarse cries of the wounded bear, hermate came bounding down the slope toher rescue.

The first act had been interesting, butI confess that I was glad when the curtaindropped. Creede was tired. Even[129]an experienced hunter could hardly beexpected to go through such a performancewithout experiencing some anxiety.I almost held my breath as the biganimal bore down upon the tiredhunter. Nearer and nearer he came,and Creede had not even raised his rifleto his shoulder. Now the bear was lessthan twenty feet away and Creede stoodstill as a statue with one foot restingon the body of the dead.

I was so excited that I shouted tohim to shoot, but he never knew it;and if he had, it would have made nodifference.

At last the bear stopped within eightfeet of the hunter, and bear-like, stoodup. Now the rifle was leveled and itseemed to me it would never go, butit did. The big bullet broke the bear’sneck, and he fell down dead at thehunter’s feet.

IN 1886 at Monarch, George L.Smith, Charles H. Abbott and N. C.Creede formed a company for prospectingpurposes. Smith and Abbott wereto furnish the funds, while Creede didthe searching. This company lasted fornearly four years, during which time anumber of locations were made, some ofwhich they could have sold at a goodprofit; but they held on for moremoney, always spending liberally forthe development of their property.

Just before the little company wentto pieces, Smith and Abbott went overin the mountains to where Creede withtwo miners had worked all winter, on[131]Spring Creek. After making a thoroughexamination of the prospects, itwas agreed that they should abandonthe hole and break up the partnership.This action was not taken because ofany disagreement; but the men whowere putting up the money were discouraged.

Just before visiting the property,Smith and Abbott received a letterfrom Creede, in which he said:

“I notice by the general tone of yourletters lately, that you are both becomingdiscouraged with my hard luck. Iassure you that I am doing the bestI can. Take new courage, stay withme a little longer, and I shall findthe greatest silver mine in America. Ifeel it in my bones.”

But they had tried so long and spentso much money, that they had becomediscouraged.

[132]Smith, since that time has made asmall fortune out of mines. SenatorAbbott, who is well known and universallyrespected, is the manager of aMonarch property in which he islargely interested. He has a home inDenver where his family live; butspends most of his time in the mountains,still toiling, and hoping that he,too, may find a fortune in the hoaryhills.

SHORTLY after the abandonment ofthe claim on Spring Creek, and thewithdrawal of Senator Abbott from thecompany, Smith and Creede went overto the head of West Willow. They believedthat at that point they could findan extension of the vein they had beenworking, and Creede believes to thisday that they did. Here they located aclaim. They were not working togetherthat day and Creede was alonewhen the location was made. Many arethe stories that have been told as tohow the first mine in the now famouscamp of Creede got its name, none ofwhich are within a mile of the truth.

[134]

Having driven a stake, Creede satdown to think of a name. There waslittle or nothing in a name, he thought,but he wanted to please his partner.He remembered that Smith had namedthree claims in Monarch, the “Madonna,”the “Cherubim,” and the “Seraphim,”and he would follow in thatline. Creede was not well versed in[135]Biblical history, so knew very little ofthe saints and angels. He looked abovewhere the eagle flew by the raggedrocks and thought of Elijah; how hehid away in the hills, and how the ravenscame down and fed him. Helooked at his torn and tattered trousers,and thought of Lazarus. Neither ofthese names pleased him. Lazarus suggestedpoverty and Elijah was awkwardand hard to spell. He looked away tothe stream below, where the willowswere, and thought of the babe in thebulrushes. He looked at the thick forestof pine that shaded the gentle slopes,and thought of the man who walkedin the wilderness. And he called themine the Moses; then fearing that hispartner might object even to that,rubbed it out, and wrote “Holy Moses.”

The story of the new strike spreadlike a prairie fire, and soon found its[136]way to the ears of Mr. D. H. Moffat,then president of the Denver & RioGrande Railroad Company, who wasalways on the lookout for a good mine.One day in the early autumn of 1890,Mr. Moffat, with a party of friends, includingMr. Eb Smith, his mining expert,and Capt. L. E. Campbell, thenquartermaster at Fort Logan, set out inthe president’s private car for WagonWheel Gap, which was at that timethe terminus of the track. CaptainCampbell had turned the traffic of thepost to the “Scenic Line” and in a littlewhile a warm friendship sprang upbetween him and the railway management,the result of which has provedvery beneficial to all concerned.

Arriving at Wagon Wheel Gap, theparty set out in stages for the HolyMoses, a distance of ten miles. Theroad lay along the grassy banks of the[137]Rio Grande, one of the prettiest streamsin the West. A ride through such abeautiful country could not be tiresome,and before they began to feel the fatigueof the journey, they reached theclaim.

It took but a short time to convincethe speculators that the Moses was goodproperty, and before leaving, a bondwas secured at seventy thousand dollars.Returning to Denver, the property wasdivided. Mr. Moffat took one half, theother half being divided between CaptainCampbell, Mr. Eb Smith, Mr. S.T. Smith, who was then general managerof the Denver & Rio GrandeRailroad Company, and Mr. Walter S.Cheesman, at that time a director, eachpaying in proportion to what he got.Most of the men interested in this newventure were very busy, and they wereat a loss to know what to do for a[138]reliable man to manage the property.About that time Captain Campbellsecured a year’s leave of absence fromthe army and took up his residence atthe new camp. A comfortable cottagewas built in the beautiful valley, justwhere the West Willow pours hercrystal flood into the Rio Grande, andhere the Campbells had their home.Mrs. Campbell, who is a niece of Mrs.General Grant, had lived many yearsin Washington, but she appeared asmuch at home in Creede camp as shedid in the Capital.

AS manager of the Holy Moses, CaptainCampbell employed Mr. Creede,in whom he had implicit confidence, toprospect, on a salary, with the understanding[140]that the prospector shouldhave one third of what was found.Creede had a world of faith in thecountry, and had imparted this confidenceto the Captain.

An ordinary mortal would have beensatisfied with thirty-five thousand dollars,but Creede’s dream had not yetbeen realized. The prophecy made inhis last letter to his old partners hadnot been fulfilled. He had now enoughto keep him when old age shouldcome upon him, and laying his littlefortune aside for a rainy day, hestarted out with the intention of wastinghis grub-stake, his salary and histime.

As if he would lose all trace of theMoses vein, he passed over a low divideand began to toil up the steep, densely-woodedside of Bachelor Mountain.How many miles this man had walked[141]in the wilds of the mountains, alonewith Nature and Nature’s God! Thefrosts of fifty winters have touched hisface and there are streaks of gray inhis soft, thin hair. At his heels isthe faithful dog. He, too, has seenhis share of service, and is as gray ashis master.

The mountain gets its name from theBachelor mine which was one of thefirst discoveries. This claim was locatedby a Mr. Bennett in the year,1885. Mr. John Herrick, a jolly bachelorof Denver, formerly of New York,had been pounding away in this claimfor several years; but not until themountain had given up millions toothers, did he wrest a fortune from herrugged breast.

Slowly up the mountain-side the loneprospector worked his way. Some floatwas found and traced along through[142]the heavy forest. Now and then thegreat roots of the pine trees forcedsome rich-looking rock to the surface,and the prospector was tempted to stopand dig, but the float kept croppingout. There was mineral in that mountainand he would follow the outcroppinguntil it disappeared.

Already the prospector began todream day-dreams of fortune and fame.Slowly up the mountain he toiled, findingfresh signs of wealth at every step.Once in a while the temptation to stopwas so great, that it was almost irresistible;but still he went on. Whenhalf-way up the long slope, the outcroppingsdisappeared and he turnedback. His trained eye soon led themto the proper place and before the sunwent down that day, Creede had laidthe foundation for the fortune of notless than a half dozen people.

[143]The new find was called the Amethyst,and upon this vein are locatednow the Last Chance, New YorkChance, the Bachelor and a number ofother valuable claims that are worth,or will be when silveris remonetized, from oneto five million dollarsapiece.

In May, 1892, theAmethyst MiningCompany was incorporated.

Mr. D. H. Moffatwas elected president;N. C. Creede, vice-president;Walter S. Cheesman, secretary and treasurer,and Captain L. E. Campbell, generalmanager. A tramway was builtto carry the ore from the mine to theDenver & Rio Grande Railroad Company’strack, which cost the Amethyst[144]company many thousands of dollars.Splendid shaft and ore houses werebuilt at the mine, making almost a littlecity where Creede had walked through awilderness of pines. The Last Chance,adjoining the Amethyst, owned by SenatorE. O. Wolcott, and others, spent afortune in development work; but themine has yielded millions to its owners.To Mr. Jacob Sanders of Leadville isdue the credit for having organized theLast Chance Mining Company, one ofthe strongest in the camp.

When the news of the incorporationof the Amethyst Mining Company wentout to the world, many inquiries weremade by brokers for stock; but nonewas ever offered for sale.

The capital stock, five million dollars,is divided as follows; Mr. Creede ownsone third, Mr. Moffat one third, CaptainCampbell one sixth, Mr. S. T. Smith[145]and Mr. Cheesman, a twelfth each.When the statement is made that thismine for some time paid a monthly dividendof ninety thousand dollars, it iseasy to figure the daily income of anyor all of the gentlemen interested in theproperty. What a striking example forthe monometallist who argues that silvercan be produced at a profit at the presentprices; but it stands as a well-knownfact, that, taking the wholeoutput of Creede camp from the dateof the discovery of the Amethyst vein tothe present time, every ounce of silverthat has gone down the Rio Grande hascost the producers more than a dollar.

Of the army of prospectors who losethemselves in the hills every spring,nothing is ever heard, except of the veryfew who find a fortune. Among the gamblingdens in a mining camp, the scoresof men who lose from one to one thousand[146]dollars every night keep their ownsecret; but let one man win a hundred,and you will hear the barber tell thecity marshal that “Redy Quartz brokede bank at Banigan’s las’ night, tooeasy.” Mining and prospecting are onlylegitimate gambling, and it is the tensof thousands of little losers that keepthe game going.

AWAY in the hills, far above thebluebells, where the day dawnedearly and the sunlight lingered whenthe day was done, the lone prospectorhad his home. At times he would havea prospecting partner; but often formonths he lived alone in the hills, withno companion save his faithful dog, whofor thirteen years followed silentlywhere his master led. One day whiletalking of his past experiences, the prospectorsaid: “When I try to tasteagain the joy that was mine when Ifirst learned that I was a millionaire,I am disappointed. Like Mark Twain’sdime, it could be enjoyed but once.[148]Great joys, like great sorrows, are soonforgotten; but there are things thatare as fresh in my memory as if theseyears had been butmoments. I shallnever forgetthe many beautiful spots where mylittle dog and I have camped—alwayson the sunny south hills wherethe sun coaxed the grass to grow andthe flowers to blow, often, it seemed, a[149]month ahead of time. When we hadmade our camp, sometimes we would goaway for a day or two, and upon ourreturn, we would find the little wildflowers blooming by our door. Often,now, when we have finished our middaydinner of porterhouse and pie, Isit on the stoop in the sunlight, myfaithful dog at my feet, and as I smokea fifty-cent cigar, my mind wanders backover memory’s trail.”

NOW let the weary prospector sitdown and rest. His dream hasbeen realized; his prophecy fulfilled.

The opening of the Amethyst veincalled for the extension of the Denver& Rio Grande Railway Company’s trackfrom Wagon Wheel Gap, a distance often miles.

About this time, President Moffat andthe General Manager got into an entanglementwith the directory and bothresigned. Mr. George Coppell, chairmanof the board, came out from New Yorkand took charge of the property.

Mr. Moffat and others interested,[152]urged the management to extend therails to the new camp. Among thoseinterested in the extension was SenatorWolcott, counsel for the company; butit is as difficult for a New York capitalistto appreciate the importance of asilver camp as it is for him to appreciatethe value of a silver dollar, so Mr.Coppell refused to build the line.

Mr. Moffat then put up thirty-sixthousand dollars to build the extension,agreeing to let the railroad companyrepay him in freight.

Soon after this Mr. E. T. Jeffrey waselected president and general managerof the road. Probably no man inAmerica could have taken up the toolslaid down by Moffat and Smith and continuethe good work begun by them,with so little friction as did the presentpresident of the Denver & Rio GrandeRailroad Company. To fill the places[153]vacated by these popular officials wasno light task. The grand stand waspacked and the voters held the bleachers,when President Jeffrey went to thebat.

Colorado said “Play ball,” and in thefirst inning he won the respect of theother players and the applause of thepeople. He has been successful becausehe deserved success.

Three months after the completion ofthe line to Creede, each train broughtto the camp from two hundred to threehundred people, all the side-tracks wereblocked with freight and a ceaselessstream of silver was flowing into thetreasury of the Denver & Rio GrandeRailroad Company. The lucky prospectorbuilt a cozy cabin in the newcamp and saw a city spring up almostin a day. Just where the trains pulledin, you might see him sitting by the[154]cottage door, smoking a cigar, while thelittle old dog who had just finished aremarkably good breakfast, trotted stiff-leggedup and down the porch andwondered why they didn’t go out anymore and hunt in the hills.

[155]

THE RISE AND FALL OF CREEDE.

TO one who has lived almost aloneand unknown for a half hundredyears, the change from obscurity to notorietyand fame is swift and novel.Mr. Creede realized that he was attractingthe attention of the world, especiallythe fair ones in search of husbands, ina very short time.

In his little den up the Gulch he hada collection of letters that were interestingreading. They came from the fourcorners of the earth; from women ofevery tongue, and almost every walkof life.

[158]The first one I saw was from aSt. Louis play actress, who sent photosin which her left foot stands at sixo’clock, her right five fifty-five. Herhair was short and cut curly. She saidshe was “dead weary of the stage,” andthat with the prospector’s money andher experience, they could double upand do the world in a way that wouldmake the swells of “Parie” take to thewoods, and there was nothing the matterwith his coming on and she wouldmeet him on the Q. T., and if she failedto stack up, he could cash in and quit.

July 11, 1892. A Rhode Islandpreacher writes to ask for help.

“Doubtless,” he began, “you have many lettersfrom people upon whom the cares of life pressheavily, and it must be a source of great annoyance.”

After dwelling at some length uponhis deplorable condition, there was a—

May 17, 1893. A woman with a nosefor lucre and a cold nerve, writes fromWaxahachie to ask the lucky prospectorto “come down and look at her daughter.”

“She is a perfect beauty; has a good solo voice,but is a little lazy. She has not quite developed,being only thirteen years old; but if you will takea look at her you will change your mind. She’s abeauty. She wants to go to Italy or France andstudy music and if you will help to educate heryou may have her.”

What a cold-blooded proposition isthis, soliciting as a horse trader wouldfor some one who has a fortune to takea look at her child thirteen years old!

A lady writes from Canada to borrowthree thousand dollars to buy a farm,[160]and adds that one man should not haveso much money.

An ambitious young Englishman, whois in love with the “prettiest girl inHold Hengland,” writes for a “few ’undredto bring ’er hover with.”

July 8, 1892, at Columbus, Ohio, awidow writes the best letter of themall.

Up to the writing of these pages, themails continue to bring loads of lettersfrom all sorts of cranks. Those fromwomen are turned over to Mrs. Creede;but only a very few, of course, are answered.

In that poet’s Paradise; that dreamylotus-land, Southern California, Creede[162]has bought a beautiful home. It standsjust at the end of Sixth street on Pearl,surrounded by tropical trees, vines andflowers. Here the balmy breezes bringdown the scent of cedar from the hills tothe north, and the soft sea-winds creepacross the lea from the ocean-edge. It’sa pretty place—a pleasant place forweary pilgrims to rest, beyond the wasteof a sun-dried sea—

Copyrighted 1894, by Cy Warman,
Denver, Colorado.

Denver, March 15, 1892.

My Dear Mr. Warman:—I noticeby the papers that you are gettingready to start a daily in Creede. Yourcourage is worthy of all astonishment.Don’t you know the gamblers therewill shoot you full of holes, and perhapsspoil the only suit you’ve got fitto be buried in, before your paperreaches the tenth number? Whateveryou do, wear your old clothes and keepyour Sunday suit nice for emergencies.The boys will all chip in and give youa big funeral, but we haven’t any of usgot a spare coat fit to bury you in; sotake care of your Prince Albert andwear your corduroys till the question issettled one way or the other, for if[4]anything should happen, it would mortifythe boys to have to bury in hisshirt-sleeves the only poet Colorado hasproduced.

Well, you are in for it, I suppose,and nothing will stop you, and beingin, there is nothing for it now but to“bear thyself so thine enemy may bewarethee,” or in other words, heel[5]yourself and face the music like a man.Whatever else you do, don’t show thewhite feather, for the honor of thepress is in your keeping, and if youwill immolate yourself, we expect youto die game and not with a bullet inyour back. Don’t worry one minuteabout the obituary notices. That willbe all right. Theboys will all seeyou through ingood shape andthe papers herewill all turn rulesand celebrateyour virtues insuch halting meteras can bemustered.

But, seriously,what evil genius tempted you into theproject of a daily in Creede, and whosemoney are you blowing in?

[6]If your ambition is to establish areputation for courage—going into sucha lair of hobos, gamblers and all-roundtoughs—most people will think it absurdlysuperfluous in a man—a westernman at least—who makes no concealmentof the fact, in this fin de siecleera, that he perpetrates poetry and iswilling to make his living by it—ifhe can.

I have no wish to discourage you,Cy, in your present heroic enterprise;but I think, myself, it is wholly unnecessaryas an evidence of pluck,after all the poetry you have perpetrated.Everybody knows that a poet—awestern poet, especially—takes hislife in his hands whenever he approachesa publisher, as recklessly asthe man who runs sheep onto a cowrange. Of course, no western manwould feel any compunction in killing a[7]poet, considering that whatever attentionthey command in the East makesagainst our reputation out here forpractical horse-sense and energy, andtends to make the underwriters andmoney-lenders suspicious and raise therates of interest and insurance.

I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for theworld, for I confess I like your poetrymyself, but I think you owe the singularimmunity you have enjoyed inDenver above other poets who havebit the dust or emigrated eastward, tothe openly-expressed admiration andaffection of Myron Reed and Jim Belfordand a few other reckless crankswho have intrenched themselves against“the practical horse-sense” which isthe pride of our people. As, instance:I happened into that gun-store in theTabor Block yesterday to provide myselfwith a jointed fishing-rod against[8]what time I should come down toyour funeral—for they tell me the UpperRio Grande swarms with trout, andI thought I might like to cast a fly,even so early, after seeingyou planted, and beingshown the spot whereyou fell. For I fancysome of those toughswhose hearts your inspiredverses had touched,commiserating my tears,would come to me and take me gentlyby the hand and lead me down to the coroner’soffice to show me the hole in thebreast of your coat—for I never have doneyou the wrong to imagine the hole anywherebut in the breast where the remorselessbullet tore its way to yourbrave heart. And then the tender-heartedtough, wiping his eyes with hissleeve, should draw me away and lead[9]me up the street “to see where it happened,”and that he should halt at acertain spot in front of a great flourishingsaloon and gambling hall, where Ishould catch a glimpse through thewindows, of battered and frowzy girlsin dirty, trailing calico “tea-gowns”and thin slippers, drinking at the barwith the cheaper class of the gamblersor with befuddled miners they werepreparing to rob, and he should say:“’Twas right here—right where I’mstandin’—and poor Cy, he wuz goin’along and he wuzn’t sayin’ nothin’ tonobody, ’n’ I was standin’ right acrossthe street there, in the door of MinnieMonroe’s place, an’ Min she wuz leanin’over my shoulder and we wuz bothlookin’ right across at the saloon whereSoapy Smith wuz standin’ in the door,readin’ a newspaper out loud to BobFord an’ a lot o’ them low-down girls[10]that hangs around there after breakfasttill they strike a treat; an’ at everyword Soapy he was rippin’ out oathsan’ shakin’ his fist, an’ Min, she saysto me: ‘Bill, there’s a row on, les’ goover and see what’s up.’ ’N’ jest atthat minute along comes poor Cy—mindin’his own business ’n’ sayin’nothin’ to nobody—an’ that’s what I’llswear to ’fore the grand jury, mister, ifI’m called, an’ Min, she’ll swear to thesame thing. Nothin’ wouldn’t a’ happened,fur everybody’s back wuz turned,only fur one o’ them low-downtrollops stuck herhead out o’ the door ands’ys, ‘There’s the —— ————, now,’ and Bob Fordhe looked over his shoulder ’n’ s’ys,‘Sure ’nough Soapy, there goes yourman.’

“Min an’ me heard every word jest[11]as plain as a pin. Cy heard it, too, andhe knowed what it meant. He wuzgame—I’ll say that fur him—’n’ facedabout ’n’ reached fur his gun quicker’n the jerk of a lamb’s tail in flytime, but Soapy got there first, ’causehe’d rushed out with his gun cocked,and it wuz all day with poor Cy ’foreyou could say Jack Robinson.”

“Reached for his gun?” (in imaginationI inquire doubtingly)—“then hewas—”

“Oh, yes, he was heeled. Cy wuzn’tno chump. He knowed he was takin’his life in his hands when he jumpedthat gang an’ began to roast them inhis paper. He knowed they’d lay furhim an’ do him up if they ever gotthe drop on him ’fore he could draw.But oh, say, if poor Cy had just hada show—or even half a show—wouldn’the shot the everlastin’ stuffin’ out o’[12]that crowd quicker ’n a cat could lickher ear! That’s what he would, mister,fur he was game an’ he couldhandle a gun beautiful. But” (inmy fancy your worthy tough alwaysdraws his sleeve across his face at thisjuncture) “I suppose it had to be—prob’lyit was God’l Mighty’s will.There’s the pole over yander front o’Min’s place we strungSoapy and Bob to, an’there wuzn’t no inqueston them—notmuch there wuzn’t,for the coroner himselfhelped at the lynchin’—everybodyhelped’ceptin’ that pigeon-liveredcad of a preacher. He wantedto deliver a lecture to the crowd onthe majesty of the law an’ that kindo’ thing, but he got left on his little[13]game that time. Oh, he’s too slow forthis camp, mister. The preacher thatcan’t keep up with the band wagon,ain’t got no business monkeyin’ arounda live mining camp like Creede.”

But bless my stars, how my anxietyfor you has drawn me into digression?I started to tell you what happenedat the gun-store. You know it’s aplace where some clever men drop inand lounge a bit and swap sportingstories and smoke a friendly cigar. Iheard some one call me to the rear,and going back, I found Belford andtheir reverences, Tom Uzzell and MyronReed—God bless their manlysouls—and one or two othersI did not know. And yourfriend, the Reverend Myron,was reading aloud to thecrowd that fanciful littlejingle you had in yesterday’sTimes about the beautiful but[14]willful maid who wandered down tothe shore of sin and got snatchedback by some compunctious Joseph beforethe undertow caught her, or languageto that general effect;—forgiveme, I haven’t been able to read itmyself and cannot recall a line of italthough I recognized it as a gem.

Well, you could see the little crowdwas being affected, for Mr. Reed wasdelivering it with exquisite feeling,and when he had finished, there wasa general glance of admiration allround; and Mr. Uzzell remarked thatthere was a fine sermon—I think, onreflection, that he said a fine, strongsermon—in the verses; and yourfriend Reed smiled. Then Belford,in a characteristic burst of rhetoric,declared that “The Muses must havekissed in his cradle, the fellowwho wrote those lines.” And your[15]friend, the Reverend Myron, smiledout loud, and Belford glanced aroundthe crowd for approval.

I shouldn’t consider that fraternalmagnanimity required me to repeatthese flattering expressions to you, Cy,only that I feel your doom drawsnigh. It is borne in upon me withall the psychic force of a prophecythat you are fated to perish by theignominious hand of our own andonly Soapy, if you persist in startingthat daily. You can’t run a dailywithout saying something, and youcan’t say anything that ought to besaid without giving mortal offense tothe toughs who are running that camp,and you can’t give offense to themwithout getting shot. It is an ancientsaying that “a word to the wise issufficient”; but it were better to say,as experience proves, that a word to[16]the wise is generally superfluous. Bewise, Cyrus, in your day and generation.Seek fame in other fields. Open aboarding-house or an undertaker’s shop,or both. This will give you a chanceto study human nature in all its phases.It is the school for a poet and philosopher.Don’t miss the opportunity.Don’t waste your promising young lifewriting poetry or running a daily paperto reform the morals of a mining camp.Either is sure to bring you to an ignominiousgrave. But if, in spite of myprayers and tears, you will persist, sendme your paper. I shall have a curiosityto see what sort of a stagger youmake at moulding the protoplasm ofpublic opinion into a cellular structureof moral impulse. Send me the paper,sure. So-long. God protect you.

Always,
Fitz-Mac.

[17]P. S.—Now, may confusion take my muddledbrains, but I have overlooked the very thing Istarted to write you about.

The inclosed letter of introduction will makeyou acquainted with Miss Polly Parsons, ayoung girl whom I have known from childhood,and in whose welfare I take a serious interest.She is a bright and beautiful girl—and a thoroughlygood girl, let me remark—and I wanther to know you and feel that she has a friendin you on whom she can call for counsel andprotection if need be.

She is under the necessity, not only of makingher own living, but of contributing to thesupport of her father’s family. Her mother andlittle brother are here, living in two rooms, buther father is in Chicago. I knew the familythere years ago when they were very rich, andsurrounded by every luxury—fine home onMichigan avenue, carriages and footman and allthat. But Parsons went broke a few years agoon grain speculations, and the worst of it is, helost his courage with his money and is now abroken-spirited man, doing the leg work forbrokers and leaving his family to shift forthemselves, or pretty nearly so. I suppose it isreally impossible for the poor fellow to helpthem very much or he would, for he loved hiswife and children. Polly had every advantage[18]that money could purchase till the old manfailed, and she is finely educated. She is a girlof great courage and has an ambition to makea business woman of herself and help her fatheronto his feet again. She has some of hisgenius for bold, speculative action, and hastaken up stenography and typewriting—not asan end but only as a means.

I am very much afraid she has made a seriousmisstep in going to Creede and that shewill get herself hopelessly compromised beforeshe is done with it.

She has gone down with that Sure ThingMining Company outfit and I suspect they area bad lot; but some of them knew her fatherin the past, and thus gained her confidence.She is too pretty a girl and too inexperiencedto be exposed to the associations of a miningcamp like Creede, where there are so few decentwomen, without great danger. She has got courageand an earnest purpose, and those qualitiesare a woman’s best safeguard; but still, she isonly a girl of nineteen or twenty and she doesn’trealize what a delicate thing a woman’s reputationis. It was sheer recklessness for her to godown there; but I didn’t know it till after shewas off. Her mother got anxious after she hadlet her go and came to see me about it. I believe—withoutpositively knowing—that the[19]outfit she has gone to are right-down scamps.They seem to have plenty of money and theyhave opened a grand office here, but they strikeme as bad eggs. A very suspicious circumstancein regard to their motives toward her—to mymind at least—is that they have promised hera salary of two hundred and fifty dollars amonth. That issimply preposterous.(Youknow that theycan get an armyof competent stenographersandtypewriters atone hundred dollarsa month, oreven less.) I don’tlike the looks ofit a bit. I suspect they—or one of them—havedesigns against the girl.

She is honest to the core, and they will neveraccomplish her ruin—if that is what they mean.But of course, you must understand, I am onlyvoicing a suspicion, and a very uncharitable oneat that; but the odor of the outfit is bad, andthey may compromise her hopelessly before shegets her eyes open, and spoil her life.

I want you to hunt her up and keep an eye on[20]her, and put yourself on a square footing withher, so that she will have confidence in you.Above all things, see that she has a boardingplace where there is some respectable marriedwoman, and give her a talking to about thecamp that will open her eyes. She will takecare of herself all right if she is once put onher guard.

I want you to understand she is no pick-upfor any rake to trifle with; but a woman is awoman—you know that, Cy, as well as I do—andyouth is youth.

She is a good telegrapher—unusually good, Iimagine. I mention this so that you may gether employment if that job she has gone tolooks at all scaly, and likely to compromise her.

She has great force of character—her father’stemperament before he broke down—and she hastaken up all these things to fit herself for thatbusiness career to which she aspires. Don’t bedeceived by her suave and amiable manner intothinking her a weakling, for she has got immenseforce of character, and she perfectly believes sheis going to have a business career.

I have told her in the letter that you areengaged to the nicest girl in Denver, so as toput you on a confidential footing, and head offyour falling in love with her yourself. Be abrother to her, Cy, and keep her out of trouble.[21]God knows you are wicked enough yourself toscent wickedness from afar and see any dangerin the path of an attractive girl without experience.Look her up at once—at once, mind you—andlet me have a good account of yourself assoon as possible.

Affectionately,
Fitz-Mac.

II.

Creede, Colo., March 17, 1892.

To Fitz-Mac, Denver, Colo.

My Dear Fitz:—Your letter camehere yesterday along with the circularssent by those peddlers of printingpresses and printer’s ink, but I havebeen so busy getting things in shape tostart the Chronicle, that there has beenlittle time to look after the beautifulcreature of whom you write. Thousandsof stenographers have gone fromhome to take positions where the paywas better, and no great harm has resulted,and why you have become sothoroughly alarmed over the young lady,[22]I am unable to understand. If, as yourletter would indicate, she has lived allher life in Chicago, she is perfectly safein Creede.

I went to the station, or rather tothe place where the train stops, thismorning, but saw no one who wouldanswer the description of your younglady. Of the three hundred passengers,not more than ten were women,and very ordinary looking women atthat.

I know that I could find your friendif she is in the camp, by turning yourletter over to Hartigan, the city editor,but he is a handsome young Irishmanwho quotes poetry by the mile, andthe fact that he has a wife in Denverwould not prevent him from opening aflirtation at the first meeting.

No, she is better off with the smoothyoung man than with Hartigan. Tabor,[23]who is to be the local man, is single,but little better than the city editor.He is very susceptible and wouldfall in love with the young womanand, of course, neglect his work. Amorning paper whose editor is threatenedwith matrimony should keep itsworking force out of the breakers.

The worst feature, so far as I cansee, is the fact that I am unable to locatethe Sure Thing Mining Company;but I hope when Mr. Wygant, the advertisingman, comes in, he may beable to enlighten me on this point. Itis my purpose, so far as possible, tocarry advertisements in the Chroniclefor none but good companies; and toguard against any impositions, I employeda man who is well known andwell acquainted with all the fakeschemes; and further, that he may haveno serious temptations, he will be[24]paid a salary instead of a commission.

However, there may be a Sure ThingMining Company, and it may be allright; but I have failed so far to learnanything about it. The camp continuesto boom. One of the fraternity shot athumb off the hand of a fellow sportat Banigan’s last night. I have nottaken in the town yet, although thetemptation has been very great. Boththe rival theaters have tendered me abox, and assured me that I would notbe “worked.”

Until now, I never knew what animportant personage theeditor of a morning paperwas. The city marshalcalled at the office yesterdaywith a half dozenbottles of beer, which hegave to Freckled Jimmie, the devil, with[25]the explanation that he understood thatthe editor was a Democrat.

I have made a good impression onsociety here, I think. The first man Iwas introduced to when I stepped fromthe train, was Bob Ford, who, in connectionwith the Governor of Missouri,removed Jesse James some ten yearsago. (He is a pale, sallow fellow witha haunted look, and he is alwaysnervous when his back is to the door.)Fitz, there is a great deal of wickednessin this world, and in a miningcamp they make no attempt at hidingit.

If I were not very busy, I shouldbe very unhappy here. From morningtill night and from night until morning,the ceaseless tramp, tramp, onwooden walks of the comers and goersis painfully monotonous. Once in awhile a pistol-shot echoes in the cañon,[26]and the saddest thing is that it is socommon that the players scarcely turnfrom the tables to see who has fallenin the fight.

And men move on, and give no heed

To life or death,—and this is Creede.

By-and-by it will be different.When we have a city government,crime will be punished. The gamblingand other disreputable resorts will beconfined to their own quarter, andCreede will become the greatest silvercamp on earth.

After paying one thousand dollars onour building and as much on ourpress and outfit, we had one thousandtwo hundred and fifty dollars to ourcredit.

This morning’s mail brought a letterfrom Mr. Sanders inclosing a LastChance check for five hundred dollars.The same mail brought D. H.[27]M.’s check for two hundred and fiftydollars with the request that I acceptit with his compliments, but he wouldhave no stock. Now these people areall Republicans, and they know that Iwill run a Democratic paper. In thelanguage of the songster, “That islove.”

I want to say that you do my friendSmith a great injustice, when, in yourday-dream, you make him my slayer.He is my personal body-guard. He isalso a bitter enemy of Ford’s. Markyou, these men will meet some day—Isay some day, for it’s never nightin Creede,—and whether he do killSapolio or Sapolio do kill him, orboth,—especially the latter,—the incidentwill render my position all the moresecure.

When Governor Routt was hereworking the shells on the Smart[28]Alecks who came to camp to buycorner lots cheap, I bought a loton the shores of the West Willow.The selvage of my property wasswept by the rushing waters of thebusy little brook; and I gave it outthat I wanted that particular lot tohave water-power for my press. Ofcourse, all were anxious to aid in theestablishment of a morning paper, andthe lot came to me at three hundreddollars, the minimum price, which isjust thirty times its value. The lot nextto mine was reserved bythe State for the use ofthe little brook.

A speculative pirate,by thename of Streepy,built ahouse over the river and turned thestream through my lot, so now all Iown is the river.

[29]In closing, let me assure you that Iwill do all in my power to locate theyoung woman, and advise you.

Yours truly,
Cy Warman.

III.

Denver, March 20, 1892.

My Dear Warman:—Yours of the17th, after some unaccounted-for delay,has but just reached me. Perhaps yourgifted postmistress had not time to read itat once, and so held it overtill leisure should serveher curiosity; or she mayhave found unexpected difficultyin deciphering youringeniously atrocious writing,which I can imagine would only increasethe curiosity of a gifted woman.

I once lived where the postmaster, aman of intellectual inclinations, was[30]very slow at reading manuscript, beingobliged to spell out the words laboriously,and I found the delay occasionedby the interest he took in studying myepistolary style, to improve his mind, agreat annoyance. But a bright thoughtstruck me one day, and I employed atypewriter. After that there was butlittle delay, for he could read printvery well. I offer you the value of thisexperience, not at all on my account,for I can generally manage to makeout what you are writing about prettyclosely, but to promote expedition inmail service. It occurs to me to mention,however, en passant, that if youfail in that newspaper enterprise, youstill have a bright career for your penbefore you in the Orient, marking tea-chests.Do not imagine that I amcomplaining when I say that yourfriends would find more time to love[31]you if you would employ a typewriter.

But all this is neither here nor there.I am in despair at the devil-may-caretone in which you write about MissParsons, and I am really alarmedabout her not having arrived. Shecertainly could not have had muchmoney by her to make a leisurely tripof it, stopping off to see the towns andthe scenery en route.

Her mother was in a few momentsago, and not having heard from her,is naturally anxious, but I affected toconsider it nothing. As a matter offact, I regard it as very strange andalarming, considering that she leftDenver with a man I strongly suspectis a scamp, and if the SureThing Mining Company has no officethere, the worst is to be feared. Itlooks very bad.

My hope is, that in your indifference[32]to my request, not appreciatingthe seriousness of the case, youhave not looked around. I suppose itis a matter of no little trouble to findany one, unless you happen upon him,in such a mad rush as has set in forCreede. I met Whitehead of the News,who is just back fromthere, and he says thatnot only are the platformseven of the carscrowded, but men actuallyride on top fromAlamosa over, in thecraze to get there.What insanity! How can such a rushof people be housed and fed in a campthat contained but five little cabinsninety days ago! But it is all gristfor your mill, of course.

Now, can I make you understandthe seriousness of this case? You certainly[33]know how easy it is for a villainto compromise a young and prettygirl like Miss Parsons in a place likeCreede, and you know that a younggirl compromised is already half ruined.As I have said, Polly is a pure-minded,honest girl of great force of character.I consider her taking up and masteringshorthand and typewriting and telegraphing,sufficient evidence of that;but she is inexperienced and unsuspicious,and may find herself undone beforeshe realizes her danger. Besides,that fellow Ketchum is a handsome,unscrupulous man, with an oily tonguein his head.

I have to go to Chicago to-night andI shall be absent two or three weeks,otherwise I would run down to Creedemyself—so great is my anxiety aboutthis girl, whom I have known fromher cradle.

[34]I must leave the matter in yourhands—if I can only make you look atit seriously. Her mother’s address isNo. 1796 California street—Mrs. MatildaParsons. Communicate with herif necessary. I have told her aboutwriting to you, etc.

Probably, while in Chicago, I shallbe able to look up her father and willtalk with him about the matter. Nowplease take up this matter seriously andoblige me forever.

Au revoir, and good luck to youwith the paper.

Fitz-Mac.

Creede, Colo., March 25, ’92.

My Dear Fitz:—Since receivingyour second letter, I have left nothingundone in the way of keeping a constantlookout for Miss Parsons, for I[35]see how terribly in earnest you are.Yesterday I took dinner at a little restaurantin Upper Creede, and when thegirl came to take my order she almosttook my breath. There was somethingabout her thattold me that shewas new at thebusiness; and Ibegan to behopeful that shemight be theyoung lady forwhom I had been looking forthe past week. When therest had left the table, I askedfor a second cup of coffee,and when she brought it, I made an attemptto engage the girl in conversation.

“You are very busy here,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered, with a slight[36]raise of the eyebrows, and just a hintof a smile playing round her mouth.

“I presume you get very tired byclosing time,” I ventured.

“We never close,” she said; andagain I noticed the same movement ofthe eyes.

I knew she thought I was endeavoringto build up an acquaintance, and itannoyed me. If there is one thing Idislike, it is to be taken for a masherwhen I am not trying to mash.

“Haven’t I seen you in Denver?”

“Perhaps.”

“Haven’t I seen you with Mr. Ketchum?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you know Mr. Ketchum?” Iasked with some embarrassment.

“Do you?”

“Well, not very intimately,” was my[37]somewhat uncertain reply. “Is he intown?”

The girl laughed in real earnest.When she did compose herself, sheasked, “Are you a reporter for the newpaper?”

I told her I was not, and then Iasked her if she could tell me whereMr. Ketchum’s office was.

It was down the street near the HolyMoses saloon, she said; and I congratulatedmyself upon having gotten astraight and lucid reply from her.

“Is he in town?” was my nextquestion.

“He was at this table when youcame in. Don’t you know him?”

“Not very well,” said I.

“Then how do you know you sawme with Mr. Ketchum?”

I said he must have changed.

“No,” said the girl, showing some[38]spunk. “You don’t know him. Younever saw him; but you are trying tobe funny. Your name is Lon Hartigan,and I am dead onto you.”

“O, break!—break away!” said achemical blonde, as she swept in fromthe kitchen, coming to the rescueof her “partner,” as shecalled her. “The girls fromthe Beebee put usonto you and that fellowfrom New York.You can’t come none ofyour monkey doodle businesshere. Mr. Ketchum isthe nicest man ’at eats hereand he always leaves a dollar underhis plate.” And the drug-store blondesnapped her fingers under my nose,whirled on her heel, and banging asoiled towel into a barrel that stood bythe door leading to the kitchen, sheswept from the room.

[39]“Will you bring me some hot coffee?”I said, softly, to the girl withher own hair.

“You misjudge me,” I began, as sheset it down.

“I am sorry,” she replied with ahemi-smile that hinted of sympathy,but is worse than no sympathy.

“Now, see here,” I began, “I’ll tellyou my name if you’ll tell me yours.My name is Warman.”

“My name is Boyd—Inez Boyd,”said the girl, “and I am sorry to havetalked as I have, to you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said I, as I leftthe room.

Outside I saw a sign which read:“The Sure Thing Mining and MillingCompany, Capital Stock, $1,000,000.”

The next moment I stood in theouter office, saw a sign on a closeddoor: “F. I. Ketchum—Private.”

[40]I opened a little wooden gate, steppedto the private entrance and knocked.A tall, good-looking man of thirty-fiveto forty, with soft grayhair, came out and closedthe door quickly.

“Is this Mr. Ketchum?”I asked.

“Yes sir, what can Ido for you?”

Now that was a sticker.It had not occurred tome that to call a manout of his private officeone ought to have some business.

“I’m the editor of the Chronicle andI just dropped in to get acquainted. Ihave heard of your company.”

The man looked black. “We arenot looking for newspaper notoriety,”he said, without offering me a seat. Inshort, he didn’t rave over me, as some[41]of the real estate men did, and afterasking how the property of the companywas looking, I went away. Pooras I am, I would have given twenty tohave seen into the “Private” room.

I write all this in detail, that youmay know how hard I have tried to domy duty to you as a friend, and to thepoor unfortunate girl, as a man. Ishall have more time from now on, asI have for my superintendent and generalmaster mechanic, Mr. J. D. Vaughan,who can make a newspaper, fromthe writing of the editorial page, to themailing list. In the past, as now, hehas always been with distinguishedmen. He was with Artemus Ward atCleveland, Wallace Gruelle, at Louisville,Bartley Campbell, at New Orleans,Will L. Visscher when he ran the“Headlight,” on board the steamerRichmond running between Louisville[42]and New Orleans, and with Field andRothaker on the Denver Tribune.

We got out our first issue Monday,and I feel a great deal better. It hasbeen the dream of my life to have adaily paper, and we have got one nowthat is all wool and aswide as the press willprint. I have this line underthe heading:

“Polities: Free Coinage;Religion: Creede.”

I think that line will last.It is what we must live forand hope for. Of course, weexpect to lose money for a few months;but if the camp continues to grow, theChronicle Publishing Company will bea good venture. There are many hardshipsto be endured in a mining camp.The printers had to stand in an uncoveredhouse and set type while the[43]snow drifted around their collars. Theyheld a meeting in the rear office Sunday,organized a printers’ union, fixed aschedule to suit themselves—fifty cents athousand; and, in order that I mightnot feel lonely, I was made anhonorary member of the union.

Mr. George W. Childs was takenin at the same time. My salaryis to be fifty dollars a week; butI don’t intend to draw my salaryuntil the paper is on a payingbasis.

We have not got our motor in placeyet, and I had to pay two Mexicanstwelve dollars for turning the press thefirst night. Coal is ten dollars a ton;coal oil sixty cents a gallon. We usea ton of coal every twenty-four hoursand five gallons of oil every night. Itwas a novel sight to see the newsboysrunning here and there through the[44]willows, climbing up the steep sides ofthe gulch to the tents and cabins crying“Morning Chronicle!” where themountain lion and the grizzly bearhad their homes but six months ago.The interesting feature in thefirst issue is a three-columnaccount of Gambler Joe Simmons’funeral. It tells how thegang stood at the grave anddrank “To Joe’s soul over there—ifthere is any over there.”

Yours always,
Cy Warman.

Creede, Colo., March 28, 1892.

Dear Fitz:—Three days ago Iwrote you that I had located Mr.Ketchum but failed to find the girl.Yesterday being Sunday, I went downto the hot springs at Wagon Wheel[45]Gap to spend the day. At the hotelI met Mrs. McCleland, of Alamosa,and while we were conversing, a ladycommenced to sing in the parlor. Thesoft notes that came from the pianomingled with a voice so full of soulfulmelody, that I stoppedtalking and listened. “Doyou like music?” askedthe good lady from theSan Luis. “There is butone thing sweeter,” Isaid, “and that is poetry—themusic of thesoul. Take me in,won’t you?”

We entered so softly that the youngwoman at the piano failed to noticeour coming, and sang on to the end ofthe piece.

“La Paloma!” How different fromthe strains I had heard during the past[46]week, from the Umpah band in frontof the Olympic Theater.

When she had finished, the singerturned, blushed, and rising, advancedtoward my friend, holding out herhand; and I was surprised and pleasedto hear Mrs. Mc. say:“Well, I want to know—areyou here?”

The young lady acknowledgedthat she was,and went into a long explanationthat she hadconcluded to stop at thesprings until matters were in a littlebetter shape at Creede.

“Where is Mr. ——, Mr. ——,” stammeredMrs. Mc.

“Oh, he’s in Creede,” said the younglady, as she shot a glance at me whichwas followed by a becoming blush.“He is so busy at the mines; they[47]work a great many men, you know.”

All this time I had been lookingover Mrs. McCleland’s shoulder into anexceedingly bright and interesting face.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said thegood lady, “this isMr. Warman, MissParsons.”

I don’t know forthe life of me,whether I said“Howdy,” or“Good-by,” I wasdazed. I had forgottenthe while Ilooked into that beautiful face, that sucha person lived as Polly Parsons, andwhen it came to me all at once likethe firing of a blast, it took the windout of my sails and left me helplessin mid-ocean.

“Where did you meet Miss Parsons?”[48]I asked, when the young ladyhad left the room.

“At Alamosa, some two weeks ago,she stopped at our hotel, and I didn’tlike the looks of the man she was with;so I asked her to sleep in a spareroom just off from my own.

“I heard him trying to persuade herto go to Creede with him the nextday, but could not understand what herargument was, except that she wouldnot go to Creede until there wassomething for her to do.”

“Who was this man?” I asked.

“His name is Ketchum; he is connectedwith the Sure Thing MiningCompany.”

“At last!” I said with a sigh thatwas really a relief to me.

After luncheon, I gave the letteryou sent, to Miss Parsons, and Iwatched her face while she read it.

[49]Of one of two things I am convinced;either she loves you and wasglad to see that letter, or she hatesyou and will do as muchfor me. That is as nearas you can guess a prettywoman.

“If there’s anything Ican do for you, MissParsons—” “O, I amquite capable of gettingalong alone,” she said.“I thank you, of course,but there is nothing; Iam promised a good position in Mr.Ketchum’s office as soon as they getthings in shape. I have some readymoney with me, enough to pay myexpenses at the hotel.”

“You will not find so pleasant ahotel in Creede as this, Miss Parsons.The Pattons are nice people, and it[50]would be better, I think, for you toremain here until a position is openfor you,” I ventured by way of advice.

“Mr. Ketchum has engaged a roomfor me over the Albany Restaurant,”she said, “and he is to call here forme to-morrow.”

“But, Miss Parsons,” said I, “do youknow what sort of a place that is?”

“I know, sir, that Mr. Ketchumwould not take me to an improperplace,” and she gave her head a twistthat told me that my advice was notwanted.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Parsons,”said I, by way of explanation; “I wasthinking of the Albany Theater building;the restaurant may be all right.But I was thinking only of your welfare.”

“Thank you,” she said, but shemeant “Don’t trouble yourself.”

[51]“Good-by, Miss Parsons,” I said, extendingmy hand. “Hope I may havethe pleasure of meeting you in Creede.”

“I go to Creede to-morrow,” she saidas she gave me a warm, plump handand said “Good-by.”

Fitz, forgive me for being so slow;but you forgot to tell me how beautifulshe was; the Poet of the Kansas CityStar would say: “Her carriage, faceand figure are perfection; and her smileis a shimmer-tangled day-dream, as shedrifts adown the aisle.” Such eyes!like miniature seas, set about withweeping willows, and hair like ripeninggrain, with the sunlight sifting throughit.

Good-by,
Cy Warman.

V.

Grand Pacific Hotel,
Chicago, April 8.

Dear Cy:—Your two letters of the[52]25th and 28th ult., forwarded fromDenver, were received here only thismorning on my return from Milwaukee,where I have been for the past weeknegotiating the sale of that Eagle Gulchmining property, in which I am interested.I think it will be a go, and ifso, I shall be heeled—otherwise busted.

It was very good of you, old boy, totake so much trouble to look MissParsons up and to “locate” that scampKetchum. I shall not be anxious, nowthat I know you will keep an eyeon her. But you are clear off, Cy, asto her loving or hating me.

No doubt she likes me a little bit,for I have long been a friend of thefamily; and they were always kind tome when they were rich, and I havecarried pretty Polly around in myarms when she was a baby. I knewher father back in Virginia beforethey were married.

[53]Pretty? I should think she is pretty.That is why I felt so particularlyanxious about her going to Creede. Ifshe had been a ewe-necked old scrubof a typewriter, with a peaked noseand a pair of gooseberry eyes in herhead, do you fancy I couldhave been solicitous about hernot being able to take careof herself or have dreamt ofinteresting you in her?

Cyrus, my princely buck,if there was any “peculiar light” inpretty Polly’s eyes, it was admirationfor your manly figure. You are toomodest to ever do yourself justice.

I am glad you found Ketchum andthe Sure Thing Mining Company. Ihad to laugh at the mystery youmake of that back room into whichyou were not permitted to peep. Nodoubt he was working some pilgrimin there to whom he expected to sell[54]stock, and did not want to be interrupted.

I met a broker the other day whoknew him well here. He is a scamp,as I thought; but not exactly the kindof scamp I thought. He has had acareer on the Exchange here and wasonce a heavy operator and made bigmoney, but his reputation was neverfirst-class and it has become decidedlyodorous of late years through his connectionwith snide stock schemes ofone kind and another. But he haskept out of jail and isn’t a persona man can exactly refuse to speak to.

He worked a Napoleonic confidencedeal in grain here, some five or sixyears back, and came within an ace ofcleaning up a million or more on it;but the fraud was discovered and thebubble exploded, leaving him beggaredboth in fortune and reputation. He[55]had tangled a lot of respectable operatorsup in the scheme, so that it didnot look so very bad for him personally,and he escaped prosecution. Sincethen he has figured as a promoter,keeping himself in the shade.

Parsons, Polly’s father, was the manwho discovered and defeated his fraud;and the story goes here, that in revenge,he set the trap into which Parsonsfell and lost all except his honor.Parsons has a good name here still, Ifind, among the brokers, because hemade an honest settlement, although itleft him penniless and broken-spirited.It is strange that he hasn’t come to seeme. I tried to find him when I firstcame; but he was always somewhereelse, and when I went to Milwaukee, Ileft a note for him, but have heardnothing. I shall try to see him beforeI leave.

[56]I find Ketchum has a wife and somechildren here, and that he doesn’t figureas a Lothario at all as I suspected.On the contrary, he is quite a model inhis domestic relations—takes his familyto church and all that, and is a shininglight in the Sunday-school and the Y.M. C. A. So I fancy our pretty Pollyis in no great danger from him. It issingular though, why he should haveengaged the daughter of a man whomhe must hate, as his confidential clerk—andat such a preposterous salary, too.It is suspicious; but after all, it maybe a freak of kindness, finding the manwhose ruin he has planned so destitute.It is just as safe to take the charitableview as any, even of a scamp. Humanmotives are always mixed.

I cannot say when I will be athome; but write often, directing to[57]Denver, and keep a brotherly eye onour pretty Polly.

Yours,
Fitz-Mac.

VI.

Grand Pacific Hotel,
Chicago, April 9, 9 o’clock P. M.

Dear Warman:—I must write ingreat haste, for in an hour I leave forNew York. It is quite unexpected. Iexpect the Milwaukee party here in aquarter of an hour to go with me.

In all probability I shall not beback to Denver before the first of May,if then,—for, being in New York, Ishall probably stop and attend tosome other matters.

I wrote you last night, and now Iwant to correct the impressions of thatletter.

When does one ever hear the last wordof a bad story. That fellow Ketchum[58]is even more of an all-round scoundrelthan I thought. I have heard a lotabout him to-day; ran upon a manwho was his head book-keeper andconfidential man here in his heyday,and whom he robbed, as he has everybodyelse who has had anything to dowith him. I was out looking up Parsonsamong the brokers’ offices. He hasbeen a sort of fly-about these last years,into this, that, and every little pitifulscheme, to turn a dollar, and having adesk always in the office of the latestman he could interest in his projects,so he is about as hard to find as theproverbial needle in the hay-mow.

Nobody is specially interested inkeeping track of him, now that he isdown.

Well, in my hunt, I ran upon a Mr.Filmore who told me where he boards—acheap and shabby place, poor fellow.[59]He was not there; hasn’t beenfor two weeks or more. Landlady surmisedhe had gone to join his familysomewhere out West—in California, sheguessed—didn’t know when he wouldbe back; didn’t know that he wouldever be back. Oh, yes, she supposedhe would be back some time,—no, hehadn’t left any address to have hismail forwarded. The purveyor of hashsupposed Mr. Parsons received his mail[60]at his office—he certainly did not receiveany there. Was I a detective?Had Mr. Parsons been getting intotrouble? Oh, Cy, the misery of beingvery poor after having been very rich!The Lord deliver me from it! PoorParsons, one of the finest and proudestof gentlemen, to be spoken of in such atenor at the street door of a cheapboarding-house!

Is it any wonder his brave, goodlittle girl is frantic to do somethingto help him onto his feet again andout of such an atmosphere?

He may be in Colorado; and if heis, you may be called upon to recordthe sudden death of that scamp Ketchum,any day.

I returned to Mr. Filmore’s office toleave a note with him for Parsons,and he told me all about K. Thefellow is a thorough scamp and all[61]his faults are aggravated by his smoothand oily hypocrisy. It is true he has afamily here, as I mentioned yesterday,and that he maintains them in a showof comfort and respectability; but hiswife is a broken-hearted, dispirited creature,whom he married at the muzzleof a frantic father’s gun. He drags herto church to keep up appearances; butthat is all the respect or civility heshows her. When he was rich here, hekept a blonde angel of the demi-mondein swell style, with her carriageand all that, while hiswife was left to stumparound on foot, with an occasionalexcursion in companywith the hired girl andthe baby on the street-carsof a Sunday afternoon. Filmore saysthe wretch has ruined four or fivepoor girls in succession, who came to[62]work in his office, and started them outon a sea of sin.

I hope Parsons has gone to Colorado,so that he may know just where hisdaughter is. I intended to give himmy opinion of the matter very plainly,if I had found him.

You must keep a kindly eye on thepoor child, Cy, and help her if youcan. Roast that scoundrel and show uphis rotten record and his swindlingscheme, if he gives you half a chanceto open on him. Jump him anyway,and don’t wait for a special provocation.

Filmore’s address—Stanley R. Filmore—isroom 199 Marine Building, Chicago,and he will willingly supply youwith facts enough from the man’s nefariousrecord to drive him out of Coloradowith his swindling miningschemes. It ought to be done—of[63]course only if the mine is a fake—forthat sort of scamps and swindlers arethe ones who are bringing mining propositionsinto disrepute in the East andmaking it almost impossible to raisemoney for legitimate enterprises. ButI must close. Can you read this wildscrawl?

Yours,
Fitz-Mac.

VII.

Creede, Colo., April 13, ’93.

Dear Fitz:—Your letter of the 9th,in which you hasten to undo what youdid for Ketchum in the preceding letter,if it had no other purpose, wasunnecessary. You can never make mebelieve that a man who eats mashedpotatoes with a knife, dips his souptoward him and lets his trousers trailin the mud, has been brought up inrespectable society. If anything more[64]was needed to convince me thatKetchum was a shark, it was suppliedby him when he told Wygantthat he regarded “advertising as unprofessionaland unnecessary.” Thenewspapers, he said, did more harmthan good. Now, when you hear aman talk that way, you can gamblethat he is working the shells and thathis game won’t stand airing.

In speaking of the embarrassment ofbecoming very poor after having beenvery rich, you amuse me, by prayingto be delivered from that awful condition.Rest easy, my good fellow. Ifyou follow your chosen path, that ofmixing literature with mining, you willdoubtless be independently poor thebalance of your days.

Well, Miss Parsons is here. She isboarding at the Albany. The Albanyis all right. It is the best place in[65]the gulch; but, of course, you neverknow who is going to occupy the nextseat. Last night, at dinner, the Rev.Tom Uzzell, the city editor and Soapysat at one table; a murderer, a gambler,a hand-painted skirt-dancer anda Catholic priest held another, whileMiss Parsons, Billy Woods, the prize-fighter,English Harry and I, ate wildduck at a large table near the stove.I introduced Harry, who is an estimableyoung man, belonging to one of thebest families in Denver, with the hopethat Miss Parsons might have an opportunityto see the difference betweena real gentleman and that social leper,Ketchum. After dinner I told Harrythat I wanted him to make love toMiss Parsons.

“But, I don’t love her,” says he.

“No matter,” says I.

“It’s wicked,” says he.

[66]“It’s right,” says I. “It will saveher from a life of misery.”

“What’s the matter with you?” sayshe. “If it’s the proper thing to makelove to a sweet young woman whomyou don’t love, why don’tyou do it?”

I told him that I wastoo busy—that I hadn’tany love that I was notusing—that I had donemy share in that line.Still he was serious; butfinally promised to be anear relative, if he could not love her.

I think I shall open an agency forthe protection of unprotected girls. Ihad luncheon at Upper Creede yesterday,and was shocked when Inez Boydcame in with fresh drug-store hair.Fitz, she is not so beautiful as MissParsons; but she is in greater danger,[67]because she is not so strong, and hasnot had the advantage of early trainingas Miss Parsons has.

“Jimmie,” said I to the little devilthis morning, “I want you to take abundle of papers; go up the gulchuntil you come to the office of theSure Thing Mining Company; go inand try to sell a paper. You maytake an hour each day for this andloaf as long as you care to in the office,unless they kick you out.”

“Sure thing they’ll do that,” saidJimmie.

“Stop! Keep an eye on Mr.Ketchum, and tell me how many peopleare working in the office.”

Two hours later Jimmie came inwith his pockets filled with silver.“Sold all my papers,” said he,as he fell over the coal scuttle.“Ketchum bought ’em all to get rid[68]of me. Guess he wanted to talk tothat girl he had in the office. Say,she’s a bute. Must got ’er in Denver;they don’t grow like that in dis gulch.They was a scrappin’ like marriedpeople when I went in, and hewanted to throw me out. Noton your life, I told him; I’mthe devil on the Chronicle anddat gang’ll burn you up if yemonkey wid me.”

“What were they quarrelingabout, Jimmie?”

“O, ’bout where she was toroom, an’ he told her she could sleepin de private office; an’ you ort tosee her then! Mama! but she did lockup his forms for him in short order.Then she said she’d go home; but she’dlike to see the mine ’fore she workedfur stock. She’s no chump. Say, heaint got no mine.”

[69]“You think not, Jimmie?” I said toencourage him.

“Naw. I went over to the Candleoffice and Lute Johnson’s goin’ to cremate’em nex’ issue.”

I learned to-day that Ketchum hadbeen accepting money from tenderfeet,promising to issue stock, as soon as thestock-books can be printed. I learnalso that the Sure Thing Mining Companyhas no legal existence; that theSure Thing claim belongs to Ketchumpersonally.

The camp continues to produce sorrowand silver at the regular ratio ofsixteen to one. Old Hank Phelan, ofSt. Joe, died on the sidewalk in frontof the Orleans Club last night. Ishowed my ignorance by asking a gangwho stood round the dead man, at thecoroner’s inquest, who the distinguisheddead might be.

[70]“Say, pardner,” said one of thesporty boys, “I reckon you don’t everlook in a paper. Don’t know HankPhelan, as licked big Ed. Brown, terrorof Oklahoma?” And they all went insideand left me to grope my way outof the dense ignorance that hadsettled about me.

Bob Ford and Joe Palmer,with a pair of forty-five’s,closed all the business housesand put the camp to bed at9:30, one night last week. Inan excited effort to escape, theNew York Sun man and the city editorbroke into the dormitory of the HotelBeebee, where the help slept, and twoof the table girls who had been protectingagainst them, jumped out of awindow into the river.

A man was killed by a woman inUpper Creede the other night.

[71]The City Marshal, Captain Light,concluded that Red McCann was amenace to good government and so removedhim. His funeral, which occurredlast Sunday, was well attended.There was some talk next day by McCann’sfriends. They even went so faras to hold an inquest; but Cap waswell connected, being a brother-in-lawto Sapolio, and he was spirited away.

The Chronicle is not on a payingbasis yet. The twelve hundred dollarshas disappeared; and I have transferredmy personal savings here to pay theprinters. The schedule is the same andI am working for nothing. We havehad a strike. Yesterday was a pay dayand Freckled Jimmie, the devil, wentout at 6 P. M. Jimmie had been withus through all these days of doubt anddanger, and when he failed to show upthis morning, I confess to a feeling of[72]loneliness. Another boy dropped in totake Jimmie’s place; but he was notfreckled and I doubted him. About10 the new boy went to the post-office.He never came back. I remarked thatit was not becoming in the editor of agreat daily to sit and pine for a boy;and yet, I could not shake off thatfeeling of neglect that came to me inthe early morning and stayed all day.We expected the devil to call uponus, looking to a compromise; but hefailed to call. Along in the P. M.-ness,we sent a committee to wait uponJimmie and ask him to visit the office.He came in, chewing a willow bough.

“Well, Jimmie,” I began, “Howwould it suit you to come back towork at a raise of a dollar a week?”

“Well,” said the striker, “I don’tkere ef I do or not; but ef you’ll letit lap back, over last week, I’ll go[73]you. But mind, you don’tcall me ‘Freck’ no more.My name’s Jimmie from nowon, see?” Jimmie is working.

Hope I may be able togive you some good news inmy next.

So-long,
Cy Warman.

VIII.
TELEGRAM.

Hoffman House,
New York, April 13.

Dear Warman:—The most surprisingthing in life is the number of surprisesone encounters. Whom should Imeet at breakfast here this morning,but Tom Parsons—no longerthe broken and rejected man Ihave pictured to you, butflushed with success andswimming on top of Hope’seffulgent tide.

Some New York brokerswho had known him inbetter days and who had confidencein his sagacity and nerve desiringto inaugurate a big grain deal inChicago, sent for him to come and steerthe game. He was as cool to theirpropositions as if he had had a million[75]to put in, and demanded a good percentageof the profits. They agreed tohis terms. He has stood behind thecurtain here for three weeks, and in thename of a dealer here not supposed tobe strong, has engineered the cornerand led the Chicago fellows into thenet. There was a great deal of moneyup, and the weak firm which the Chicagooperators expected to cinch provedto be only a stool-pigeon, for a verystrong syndicate.

They settled yesterday, and Tom’sshare of the profits is a little over ahundred thousand. What a freak offortune! Though outwardly perfectlycool, I could see that Parsons is deeplyaffected by this turn of the tide, whichputs him on his feet again. It is nothingbut gambling after all, and hismind is flushed and warped by the suddensuccess. He is full of great projects[76]to capture millions again. Nodoubt the success of this deal gives hima big pull here, and he is such a boldand experienced operator that no onecan say what may not happen. Butthis insatiate passion for high and recklessplay has injured him, mentally andmorally. He confessed to me after wewent to his room, that he had not oncethought of his family during the threeweeks he has been here,—that is, not oftheir condition and their needs. Thinkof that, in the most tender of husbands,the most careful of fathers! Iput his daughter’s position at himflat-footed; but it didn’t alarmhim a bit. “I’ll trust that girl,”he said, “to take care of herselfanywhere on top of earth or inthe mines under the earth.”

“Would you trust her to work, liveand lodge in the slums of Chicago or[77]down here about Five Points in NewYork? Would you want to exposeher to such an existence? Especially ifshe was likely to encounter in theseplaces a few refined men of recklesshabits, who would be sure to misunderstandher position and whose verysympathy would be her greatest danger?Well, that’s what Creede is,Tom,” said I, “if you just add thephysical exposure of a mountain climatein a camp where the best houseis no better than a shanty built of wet,unseasoned lumber.”

He promised me he would telegraphmoney to her to-day and advise her togo to her mother. He laughed at myfears about Ketchum’s designs, and saidhe would trust his girl against a dozenKetchums; but he was not insensibleto the danger that the scamp mightbring scandal on her, and I worked[78]him on that line till he promised togo right away and telegraph money toher. I gave him your address and hewill send in your care, to prevent thepossibility of his message falling intoK’s hands. That is why I have justwired you. I can realize that, even inCreede, it will compromise the girl tohave any connection with that SureThing outfit, and expose her characterto suspicion. Before this reaches you,no doubt, she will have gone home,and I shall have no further occasionto write you about her; but still, ifyou have an idle hour, you may writeme here and tell me how Ketchum isworking his game. While I have nofurther anxiety about Miss P., I confessto a curiosity to know if the anxietyI did have was well grounded.

How are you getting on with thepaper? Every one wants to hear about[79]Creede here, and I believe you couldget up a big subscription list in Wallstreet if you had a canvasser in thefield. Everybody has the most exaggeratednotions of the extent and richnessof the camp, and the newspaperpeople are as wild as the rest. Theyhave the most childish notions—I meanthe common run of men only,of course—as to the conditionof silver mining.Their idea of a bonanzais a place where puresilver is quarried outlike building stone. Youcouldn’t possibly tell themany fake story of the richness of minesthey wouldn’t believe. In fact, youcan make them believe anything elseeasier than the truth. This fact hurtsour business dreadfully, too, in the Eastand creates a prejudice against the use[80]of silver as money. It also helps themining sharps who are working frauds.I shall have a curiosity to see how youroast that snide scheme of Ketchum &Co. Don’t fail to send me the paper.

You may address me here for twoweeks.

Affectionately yours,
Fitz-Mac.

X.

Creede, Colo., April 20, ’92.

Dear Fitz:—Yes, the surprises inthis life are surprising. We opened acouple of surprise packages here lastnight.

I was surprised the other day whenMiss P. came into the office and askedmy advice. Until lately she has endeavoredto avoid me.

I think Harry has been watering mystock with the lady, and I am pleasedto note that these young people occupy[81]a table at the Albany that seats two.Last Sunday, I drifted into the tentwhere they hold sacred services; it iscalled the Tabernacle. Miss Parsonswas performing on a little cottageorgan, while Harrystood near her andsang, “There’sa Land that isFairer thanDay.”

Ah, yes, inthe sweet by-and-by!Isthere anything that holds so much for thetrusting soul? In the sun-kissed over-yonder,there is rest for the weary.Always full and running over, there isno false bottom in the sweet by-and-by.

Hope springs eternal

In the human breast,

Faith to push the button—

God will do the rest.

[82]I have begun to hope that Harrywill love Miss Parsons. What he hasdone for her already has had a goodeffect. His society is better for her,just as the sunshine is better for theflowers than the atmosphere of a damp,dark cellar, where lizards creep o’er thesweating stones.

Plenty of fellows here would loveher, but for their own amusement. Notso with Harry. He is as serious asthough he were in reality an Englishman.Yesterday the young lady wasvery much worried over a note shehad received, and she showed it to me.It ended thus:

Go, leave me in my misery,

And when thou art alone,

God grant that thou may’st pine for me,

As I for thee have pone.

It was signed “Harry,” and that’swhat hurt her heart. I told her it was[83]Tabor’s writing; that his first namewas Harry, and she was glad.

As I write this, I look across thestreet to the barber-shop where InezBoyd is having her hair cut short. YeGods! faded and then amputated! Sowill be her pure young life.Already the frost of sin hassettled around her soul.Youth’s bloom has beenblighted; her cheeks arehollow; her eyes havea vacant, far-away look.Her mind, mayhap, goesback to her happy home inDenver, where she used tokneel at night and say, “Now I lay me.”

She has left her place at the restaurant,and with her partner, that “breakaway” creature with the yellow hair, isliving in a cottage, taking their mealsat the Albany.

[84]I must tell you now what Miss Parsonswanted advice about. She hadvery little to do in the office, and ifshe would act as cashier in the restaurantat meal time, two hours morning,noon and night, Mr. Sears would allowher ten dollars a week, and her board,or twenty dollars a week, in all. From9 to 11, and 2 to 4, she could attendto Mr. Ketchum’s correspondence.There was still another job open.They wanted an operator across thestreet at the Western Union from 8P. M. until 12, when the regular nightman came on to take the Chroniclepress report. If she could take that, itwould make her cash income twentydollars above her board.

I asked her what she intended to dofrom midnight till morning. Shesmiled, good-naturedly, and said shethought she would have to sleep some,[85]otherwise she would have asked for ajob, folding papers.

I told her that it was all very properif she could stand the long hours. Shesaid she could always get an hour’ssleep after her midday meal, and inthat way she would be able to hold itdown for a while. I ventured to askwhy she failed to reckon her “SureThing” salary when counting her cashincome. “Oh,” she had forgotten.“Mr. Ketchum told her she would haveto take her pay in stock.” I did nottell her how worthless that stock was,but I determined to have Mr. Ketchumattended to.

Yesterday a quiet caucus was heldin the rear of Banigan’s saloon, atwhich a committee of seven was appointedto wait upon Mr. Ketchumand inquire into the affairs of theSure Thing Mining and Milling Company,[86]the statement having been madein the morning Chronicle that the companyhad no legal existence.

Here come the surprises. In accordancewith the arrangements made bythe caucus at Banigan’s, the committeecalled last night at the office of theSure Thing Mining Company and askedfor Mr. Ketchum. That gentlemanshowed how little he knew of camplife, by ordering them from the room.The spokesman told him to sit downand be quiet. He would not be commanded[87]to sit down in his own house,he said, as he jumped upon a tableand began to orate on the freedom ofAmerica. At that moment one of theparty, who is called “Mex” because hecame from New Mexico, shied a ropeacross the room. It hovered aroundnear the canvas ceiling for a second,then settled around the neck of theorator. “Come off the perch,” saidMex, as he gave the rope a pull andyanked the speculator from the table.

That did the business. After thatthe operator only begged that his lifebe spared.

“Now sir,” said the leader, “youwill oblige us by answering everyquestion put to you. If you tell thetruth you may come out all right, ifyou lie you will be taking chances.”

“We are the executive committee ofthe Gamblers’ Protective Association[88]and we are here to investigate yourgame. We recognize the right of thedealer to a liberal percentage, but weare opposed to sure thing men andsandbaggers.”

“Is the Sure Thing Mining Companyincorporated under the laws of Colorado?”

“Well—it’s—un—”

“Stop sir,” said the leader. “Thesequestions will be put to you so thatyou can answer yes or no. I will sayfurther that the committee will knowwhen you tell the truth, so there’s ahunch for you an’ you better play it,see?”

“Is the Sure Thing Mining Companyincorporated?”

“No.”

“Is it true that you have takenmoney on account of stock to be issued?”

[89]“Well,—I have.”

“Stop!”

“Yes sir, it is true.”

“Have you paid your stenographer?”

“Yes sir.”

“What in?”

“Stock.”

“How many claims do you own andwhat are they called, where located?”

“One—Sure Thing. Bachelor Mountain.”

“Shipped any ore?”

“No.”

“Any in sight?”

“No.”

“Ever have any assay?”

“No.”

“That’ll do.”

“Gentlemen,” said the leader, “Youhave heard the questions and answers,all in favor of hangin’ this fellow say‘aye.’”

[90]“Contrary ‘no.’”

Three to three; the vote is a tie. Iwill vote with the ‘noes’ we will nothang him.

“All in favor of turning him looseat the lower end of the Bad Landssay ‘aye.’”

“Carried, unanimously.”

“Mr. Ketchum, I congratulate you.”

All this took place in Upper Creede,and about the time the committee wereescorting Ketchum down through thegulch, Kadish Bula, the superintendentof the Bachelor, rushed into the WesternUnion office and handed a dispatchto Miss Parsons, asking her to rush it.

After sending the message, Miss Parsonscame to my office where Harryand I were enjoying a quiet chat,in which the two young women inwhom I have become so interested,played an important part.

[91]“I beg your pardon,” she said witha pretty blush when she opened thedoor. “I thought you were alone.”

Harry was about to leave when sheasked him to remain.

With a graceful little jump shelanded on the desk in front of me, andlooking me straight in the face shesaid:

“I want to ask you a few questions[92]and I want you to answer me truthfully.”

“Is the Sure Thing Mining Companyany good?”

“No,” said I, and she never flinched.

“Is Ketchum’s location of the SureThing claim a valid one?”

“That I cannot answer, for I don’tknow,” said I.

“Do you think Mr. Bula of theBachelor would know?” was her nextquestion.

We both agreed that he ought to beexcellent authority on locations in general,and especially good in this case,as theirs was an adjoining property.

“How, and when, can a claim be relocated?”she asked with a steady lookin my face.

I asked her to wait a moment, and Icalled Mr. Vaughan. I go to him foreverything that I fail to find in thedictionary.

[93]In a very few moments the expertexplained to the young lady that aclaim located in ’90 upon which no assessmentwork was done in ’91, wasopen for relocation in ’92.

That was exactly what she wanted toknow, she said, as she shot out of thedoor and across the street to the telegraphoffice.

Before we had time to ask each otherwhat she meant, a half dozen citizenswalked through the open door.

“We have just returned from Wason,where we went with Ketchum,” saidthe leader.

“His game is dead crooked, and wetold him to duck, and we want to askabout his typewriter, an’ see ’f she’sgot any dough.”

I explained that Miss Parsons wasacross the street, working in the telegraphoffice.

[94]“Miss Parsons,” said the leader as heentered the office, “we have justescorted your employer out of camp,and I reckon we put you out of a job;we want to square ourselves with you.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she said, gladto know that they hadn’t hanged thepoor devil. “I amworking half time atthe restaurant and untilmidnight here.”

Without saying aword, the leader heldout his hand to one ofthe men who droppeda yellow coin into it,another did the same,and before she knewwhat it meant, thespokesman stacked seven tens upon hertable, said good-night, and they left theroom.

[95]“Will you work for me for an houror so,” said the girl as the night manentered the office. Of course he would,but he was disappointed. His life inthe camp had been a lonely one tillthis beautiful woman came to work inthe office. He had dropped in twohours ahead of time just to live in thesunshine of her presence.

“There’s a tip for you,” she said asshe flipped the top ten from the stackof yellows in front of theoperator, dropped the othersix into her hand-bagand jumped out intothe night.

“Here I am again,”she laughed as sheopened my door. “I wantyou to put that in your safetill morning;” and she planked sixtydollars in gold, down on my desk.

[96]“Bless you, Miss Parsons,” said I,“we don’t keep such a thing. We alwaysowe the other fellow, but I’llgive it to Vaughan, he doesn’tdrink.”

“I want you and Harry to go withme,” she said, “and ask no questions.Put on your overcoats, there are threegood horses waiting at the door.”

In thirty minutes from that time, ourhorses were toiling up the Last Chancetrail, and in an hour, we stood on thesummit of Bachelor, eleven thousandfeet above the sea.

The scene was wondrously beautiful.Below, adown the steep mountain-side,lay the long, dark trail leading to thegulch where the arc lights gleamed onthe trachyte cliffs. Around a bend, inthe valley, came a silvery stream—thebroad and beautiful Rio Grande, its crystalripples gleaming in the soft light[97]of a midnight moon. Away to the east,above, beyond the smaller mountains,the marble crest of the Sangre deChristo stood up above the world.

Turning from this wondrous picture Isaw the horses with their riders just[98]entering a narrow trail that lay throughan aspen grove in the direction of theBachelor mine. Harry had secured aboard from the Bachelor shaft-houseand was driving a stake on the SureThing claim when I arrived.

“So this is what you are up toMiss Parsons,” said I, taking in thesituation at a glance.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “I have writtenmy name on that stake and I proposeto put men to work to-morrow.”

It was just midnight when wereached the telegraph office, and MissParsons showed us the telegram whichMr. Bula had sent: it read:

“John Herrick,
Denver Club, Denver:

Got Amethyst vein. Sure Thing canbe bought for one thousand, or can relocateand fight them; belongs toKetchum. Answer.”

[99]“Well,” said Harry, “you’re allright.”

“Now,” said Miss Parsons, “I wantto find Mr. Ketchum and give him acheck for one thousand and get a billof sale or something to show.”

We explained that Ketchum was atthat time walking in the direction ofWagon Wheel Gap. Further, that unlessshe had that amount of moneyin the bank, she would be doing aserious thing to give a check.

“Ah, but I have,” she said with asmile, as she pulled a bank-book fromher desk. “My father wired a thousanddollars to the Miners’ and Merchants’Bank for me a few days ago; the telegramnotifying me it was there, camein your care, and I must apologize fornot having told you sooner, but I wasafraid you might ask me to give up myplace, if you learned how rich I was.”

[100]“You are all right, Miss Parsons,”said I, “and I congratulate you—butthere is no excuse for you wanting togive that scamp a thousand dollars.”

“Then I must ask another favor ofyou,” she said. “I want ten men to goto work on the Sure Thing to-morrow.”

At my request, Harry promised tohave the men at work by nine o’clock,and as I write this I can hear the blastsand see the white smoke puffing fromthe Sure Thing claim. Just now I seeHarry and the “Silver Queen” comingdown the trail. They are riding thisway; Harry is holding a piece of rockin his left hand; they are talking aboutit, and they both look very happy. Aye,verily, the surprises are surprising; hopesprings eternal.

Good-by,
Cy Warman.

Hoffman House,
New York, April 27, ’92.

My Dear Cy:—Your last letter is adaisy. I read it with all the interest ofa novel.

What a magic camp Creede must be,after all! It was manly in those vigilanteswho hustled Ketchum out ofcamp so unceremoniously to treatour little friend, Polly, to so generouslyand so delicately—butit is characteristic ofthe West.

She is a courageousand capablegirl isn’tshe?—herquickness ofwit in jumpingthat Sure Thingclaim shows it.

[102]I’m glad you like her, and I knewyou would, if you got to know thequick and courageous spirit that is inher. She didn’t waste a day cryingover spilt milk when her pap bustedand all the ease and luxuries and adulationsthat surround a rich man’sdaughter vanished from about her likedew before the sun, but just jumpedin and went to learning how to earnher own living and help take care ofthe family.

Wouldn’t it be romantic, though,if that mine should really prove abonanza!—I declare I get excited thinkingabout it. I suppose there is actuallya chance that it may, since it ison the same vein—or is supposed to be—asthe Amethyst mine. Wouldn’t thatbe too good! How lucky that she happenedto be in the telegraph officewhen that dispatch was sent! And oh,[103]say, you and Harry, ain’t you thedandy span to have such a pretty girlas Polly in your care—and putthere by yours confidingly, don’tforget. No, don’t you dare forget, foryou would never have known Pollybut for me, and Harry wouldn’t havegot acquainted with her probably, butfor you. It is lucky I happened toknow your heart was already anchored,or I should never have introduced you.

So Harry refused to fall in love withher, did he, when you issued your orders?Well, I’ll bet you a horse andbuggy he will fall in love with herbefore he is a month older, unless heis in love with some other girl, forPolly is one of the most interestinggirls I have ever seen.

I don’t know Harry very well, butmy impressions are, he is an unusuallynice fellow. If he is only half as[104]manly and smart as he looks, I shallput in the good word for him withPolly.

I can see from what you write, shelikes him already—and likes you also,or she would never treat you both withsuch confidence. But she will leadHarry a dance before ever he capturesher—you bet she will—for she has atouch of the coquette in her nature inspite, also, of the warmest and mostloyal of hearts.

I hope he will fall in love withher; it will do him good, even ifnothing comes of it. A fellow whosenature is not morbid, is never any theworse off for loving a good little girllike Polly, even if she do not reciprocate.It may cost him some pain, buthe will live it through, and no man’snature ever expands to its full capacitytill the fever of an honest passion gets[105]into his blood—but you know how thatis yourself, Cy.

I knew about her jumping the minebefore your letter came—the bare factonly—for I have met Parsons hereevery day and he showed me a cipherdispatch from her telling him. It seemsshe knew his old cipher and used it.He translated it to me in the greatestadmiration of her pluck and quickness.Probably she never would have done itif she hadn’t had you two fellows tostand by her. Bully boys! I knowyou are behaving all right, or shewouldn’t trust you.

You may tell Harry all I have toldyou about the dreadful straits in whichher family have been, so that he willperfectly understand how she came togo down to Creede. I wouldn’t havehim think cheaply of her for anything,for I have got it all fixed in my mind[106]that he is to fall head over heels inlove with her. I do not believe she hashad a serious thought of any other fellow,for, though as a young Miss shewas quite a favorite in Chicago, it isnot likely she formed any serious attachments—anyattachment that wouldstand the strain of poverty such as theParsons have gone through in the lastthree years. Since she and her motherhave been in Denver, I know they haverefused to make acquaintances and havekept proudly to themselves. So I ventureto guess the field is clear forHarry if he is lucky enough to interesther, and you are fairly safe inspeaking the encouraging word to him.As I have said, it will do him good toget the fever in his blood, even if heshould fail.

Like her father, Polly is very swiftand decisive in her judgments of people,[107]and very self-reliant. The girl hasalways been in love with her father, andTom has always treated her more like alover than a father. He is awfullyproud of her, and he brags about herto me every time we meet. But he isanxious, nevertheless, about her beingin that camp, and he is leaving to-nightto join her, and I fancy he willbring her away. You may know howanxious he feels in spite of all his bragabout her pluck and smartness and herability to take care of herself, when heabandons the irons he has in the firehere, to go out and look after her. Headmires the business spirit in her andupholds it, but still he is afraid thatfighting her own way in such a roughplace will make her coarse and unlovely.

Tell Harry to put his best foot forwardand make his best impression on[108]the old man, if you find him caringseriously for Polly, for she is likely togo a good deal according to her father’sfancy in the matter of a sweetheart. Ifhe gets the old man’s heart, the battlefor Polly is more than half won—thatis, if she already likes him a little bit,which I am pretty sure from what youwrite she does. Of course, you willmanage to let the old man know whata respectful admiration both you andHarry have had for Polly, and how,being very busy, you have rather left itto your friend, Mr. English, a younggentleman of good judgment and responsiblecharacter and all that, tokeep an eye on her interests and makehimself serviceable in case she neededcounsel, etc., etc.

But above all, make him think—bothyou and Harry—that his girl hasn’treally needed the protection of either of[109]you, but has paddled her own canoelike a veteran. That will please himmore than anything else, and it wouldirritate his pride a little to think youhad been necessary to her.

You will get this probably before hearrives, for he will stop half a day inDenver to see his wife and boy; so beon your good behavior, both of you,and don’t shock him.

What you tell me about that poorgirl from Denver—Inez, is that hername?—is distressing. Her first bleachingher hair and then cutting it off,shows plainly enough the course heryoung footsteps are taking. Thatsharp-faced, wiry little blonde shechums with has no doubt led her intoevil ways. There is no company sodangerous for a girl as a bad woman.Couldn’t you take her aside and giveher a talking to, and advise her to go[110]home to her family? Take her up toone of the dance-halls some night, andshow her the beer-soaked, painted hagsthat haunt these places to pick up themeans of a wretched and precarious existence,and let her know that is whereshe will bring up, if she keeps on.But I suppose she is past talking to—pastturning back.

Write me the latest news aboutPolly’s mine and how it is turning out,and how Harry and Polly are makingit. I am deeply interested.

Yours,
Fitz-Mac.

XII.

Creede, Colo., May 9, 1892.

Dear Fitz:—I have to tell you asad story now.

Last Saturday I went to Denver, andas I entered the train at this place, I[111]noticed some men bringing an invalidinto the car. One of the men askedthe porter to look after the sick girlin “lower two,” and I gathered fromthat that she was alone. I had sectionthree, and as soon as the train pulledout I noticed that the sick person grewrestless. We had been out less thanthirty minutes when she began to rolland toss about, and talk as people dowhen sick with mountain fever.

When the Durango car, which was abuffet, was switched to our train atAlamosa, I went to the sick berth andasked the sufferer if she would like acup of tea and some toast. She wasvery ill, but she seemed glad to havesome one talk to her, and as she answered“yes,” almost in a whisper, sheturned her poor, tired, tearful eyes tome, and with a little show of excitementthat started her coughing, spoke[112]my name. It was Inez Boyd. I shouldnot have known her, but I had seen herafter she had bleached her beautifulhair, and later when she was in thebarber-shop. As the gold of sunset,that marked the end of a beautifulspring day, shone in through the carwindow, it fell upon herpale face, where a faintflush on her thin cheeksspoke of the fever within,and showed that the end ofa life was near.

She took a swallow or two of thetea, looked at the toast and pushed itaway. She had been ill for a week,she said, and had eaten nothing fortwo days. I did what little I couldfor her comfort, and when I went tosay good-night, she held my hand; thetears, one after another, came from the[113]deep, dark eyes, fell across the palecheeks, and were lost in the ghastlyyellow hair.

“Don’t think I weep because I amafraid of death,” she said. “I am soglad now, that I know that it’s allover, but I am sorry for mamma; it willkill her.”

I asked, and she gave me her addressin Denver, and I promised tocall.

When the train stopped at the gateof the beautiful city, she had calledher home, some men came with an invalidchair, and when I saw them takeher to a carriage I hurried on to myhotel.

That afternoon I called to ask afterthe girl. The windows were open, andI could see a few people standingabout the room with bowed heads.Dr. O’Connor came down the little[114]walk that lay from the door of a neatcottage to the street, and without recognizingme, closed the gate softly,turned his back to me and hurriedaway.

Inez Boyd was dead. God in Hismercy, had called her away to save herfrom a life of sorrow, sin and shame,and He called her just in time.

In the “Two Voices,” Tennysonsays:

“Whatever crazy sorrow saith,

No life that breathes with human breath

Has ever truly longed for death.”

I don’t believe it. There are timesin life—in some lives, at least—whennothing is more desirable than death.

XIII.

Creede, Colo., May 13, 1892.

My Dear Fitz:—You ask me howthe Chronicle is doing. It is doing[115]better than the editor. I have beenreducing expenses on every hand, butsince the state land sale, the boom hascollapsed, so that from one hundreddollars a week, we have got up towhere we lose three hundred a week,with a good prospect for an increase.The responsibility has grown so great,that I begin to feel like a Kansasfarm, struggling to bear up under asecond mortgage.

I have been elected assistant superintendentof the Sunday-school, umpireda prize-fight, been time-keeper at a ballgame, have been elected to the commoncouncil from the Bad Lands by anoverwhelming vote, but I have receivedno salary as editor of the Chronicle.

Tabor has written another note, andperpetrated some more poetry:

“Among these rose-bejeweled hills

Where bloom the fairest flowers

[116]

Where the echo from the mines and mills

This little vale with music fills,

We spent life’s gladdest hours.

“And still within this limpid stream

Where sports the speckled trout,

Her mirrored face doth glow and gleam;

’Twas here I grappled love’s young dream—

And here my light went out.”

Isn’t that enough to drive a youngwoman to cigarettes? Some girls itmight, but it will never disturb PollyParsons.

If I did not know Harry as I do,I should say he was learning to loveMiss Parsons very rapidly, nowthat she is rich, but I will notdo him that injustice. He hasloved her all along, but theprospect of losing her is whatmakes him restless now. Menwho have lived as long as you and Ihave, know how hard it is to ride by[117]the side of a beautiful woman overthese grand mountains on a May morning,without making love to her;

When the restless hand of Nature

Reaches out to shift the scene,

And the brooks begin to warble in the dell;

When the waking fields are fluffy

And the meadow-lands are green,

And the tassels on the trees begin to swell.

Ah, these are times that try men’shearts; but poor Harry, he is so timid;why I should have called her down amonth ago, if I had his hand.

She is too honest to encourage himif she doesn’t really care for him, butshe must, she can’t help it, he is almostan ideal young man. Maybe that iswhere he falls down; I’ve heard itsaid that a man who is too nice, isnever popular with the ladies. Perhapsthat is why you and I are pouring[118]our own coffee to-day. Swinburnesays—

“There is a bitterness in things too sweet.”

Polly’s father is here. He brought aChicago capitalist with him, and theSure Thing has been sold for sixty-onethousand dollars. I was sorry to learnof the sale, for it will take away fromthe camp one of the richest and rarestflowers that has ever adorned thesehills.

Since the great fire, we have allmoved to the Tortoni, on the borderof the Bad Lands. The parlor is verysmall, and last night when Harry andthe “Silver Queen,” as we call hernow, were talking while I pretended tobe reading a newspaper, I could nothelp hearing some of the things theysaid. Harry wanted her photograph,but she would not give it. She said[119]she never gave her pictures to youngmen, under any circumstances. Whenshe found a young man with whomshe could trust her photo, she said shewould give him the original. Harrysaid something very softly then; I didnot hear what it was, but she saidvery plainly, very seriously, that shewould let him know before she left.

“And you go to-morrow?” he asked,[120]and it seemed to me that there weretears in his voice.

“Yes,” she said, with a sigh thathinted that she was not altogether gladto go. “Papa has bought the old placeback again; we shall stop in Denver formamma and my little brother, and thenreturn to the dear old home where Ihave spent so many happy days—whereI learned to lisp the prayers that I havenever forgotten to say in this wickedcamp; and I feel now that God hasheard and answered me. It may seemalmost wicked, but I am half sorry toleave this place; you have all been sokind to me; but it is best. Fatherwill give you our address, and now,how soon may we expect you in Chicago?”

“How soon may I come?—next week—nextyear?”

“Not next year,” she said quickly;[121]and although I was looking at mypaper, I saw him raise her hand to hislips.

“And will you give me your photothen?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, and I wantedto jump and yell, but I was afraid shemight change her mind.

“I wish you would sing one song forme before you go,” said Harry, afterthey had been silent for some moments.

“What shall it be?”

“When other lips,” he answered.

“But there should be no other lips,”said the bright and charming woman.

“I know there should not, and Ihope there may not, but sing it anywayand I will try to be strong andunafraid.”

As Miss Parsons went to the piano,I left the room, left them alone, andas I went out into the twilight, I[122]heard the gentle notes as the lightfingers wandered over the keys.

“When other lips and other hearts—”

Came drifting through the trees.

“In language whose excess imparts,”

Was borne upon the breeze.

Ah, hope is sweet and love is strong

And life’s a summer sea;

A woman’s soul is in her song;

“And you’ll remember me.”

Still rippling from her throbbing throat

With joy akin to pain,

There seemed a tear in every note,

A sob in every strain.

Soft as the twilight shadows creep

Across the listless lea,

The singer sang her love to sleep

With, “You’ll remember me.”

Truly yours,
Cy Warman.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74521 ***