CHAPTER VIII
THE TRAIL GROWS LIVELY
Yes, plenty of company now. The procession had penetrated a shortdistance before, but stretched a farther distance behind or eastward:white-topped wagons of all descriptions, their canvases torn by hail,stained by rain and dingy with dust, drawn by ox-teams, mule-teams andeven cow-teams, and accompanied by men, women and children afoot, a fewahorse, every individual and every animal striving to reach the Pike'sPeak country and the Cherry Creek diggin's there.
The pilgrimage was about to "noon"; and with Duke and Jenny pullingbravely, making their best showing, the Limited skirted the line, whilegood-naturedly replying to the various welcomes.
Pretty soon the road ahead was blocked, as the overlanders spread rightand left to cook and eat dinner.
"Let's drive off to the side, yonder, Terry," bade Harry. "That lookslike a good spot near to that 'Root Hog or Die' outfit."
"How are you, boys?" greeted the proprietor of the "Root Hog or Die"wagon. "We're most of us from Ohio. Where are you from?"
"From the Big Blue Valley, Kansas Territory, farther east," answeredHarry.
"We came by the stage trail," added Terry.
"I see. Well, we took a vote and decided on the Republican Valley, and ahard time we've had, but here we are. What do you say to cooking ourdinner on the one fire, and we'll swap notes?"
He seemed to be an extraordinarily well-spoken man, notwithstanding hisuntrimmed beard and rough garb. Was a college professor, as happened, inOhio; and was going to the mountains for his health as well as to make afortune. So here he was, with his wife and little girl, accompanying alot of other Ohio people.
Leaving Duke and Jenny to graze a little while longer, after dinner the"boys from the Big Blue" strolled about, to inspect other outfits andexchange information. The noon camp was rather quiet, with the men andwomen and children resting or finishing their dishes; but back down thetrail there appeared to be a commotion--as of people gathering around awagon from which a man was making a speech.
"Come on. We might as well see all the sights on the way," bade Harry.
The speech-maker's back was toward them. Terry figured that if he talkedas rapidly as he flourished his arms, his speech would soon be ended forlack of words. However, the words were still flowing strong. Somethingin the loud tone, and the gestures, and the long unkempt black hair, andthe high thick shoulders in the ragged shirt, and the greasy slouch hat,struck Terry as familiar.
"Pine Knot Ike!" he exclaimed.
"The very man--our valued acquaintance and fellow citizen, Ike Chubbers,'half wild hoss and half grizzly b'ar,'" chuckled Harry. "We'll standoff and listen to his discourse."
They halted on the edge of the little throng, from where they could viewIke's hairy profile as, beating the air with his fists, above theup-turned gaping faces, he delivered his harangue.
"I air the only man who ever roped an' rid an alligator in its nativeswamps," he was proclaiming, and already he was quite hoarse. "I air theonly man who fit off five hunderd of the wust savage Injuns that roamthese hyar plains, an' killed nigh every one of 'em. Gentlemen an'feller citizens: Look at this hyar bar'l. Count the bullet-holes." Andby main force Ike held aloft his whiskey barrel. It certainly was wellpeppered with holes. "When the savage Injuns come down on me I waralone, travelin' my peaceful way to help civilize the diggin's, but Iwar too tough to kill. Injuns make a mistake when they attack a man o'my nater, gentlemen, for I air slow to wrath, but I air a powerfulfighter when anybody, red or white, goes to twist my tail. I air aring-tail twister myself, gentlemen. So I tells my bulls to charge themInjuns, an' I forts myself behind this bar'l an' opens up with mypill-slingers. We fit for a runnin' mile, until this bar'l war as yousee it now, gents, an' what Injuns warn't dead had fired all their shotsan' skeedaddled. Then I gets out an' cuts off the head of the chief of'em all, an' puts it in the bar'l, an' hyar it is on exhibition. Thehead complete of a real, native wild Injun, ladies an' gents--the actualhead of old Roarin' Buffler, big chief o' the combined Sioux, Kiowa,Cheyenne an' 'Rapaho nations, most o' who air still layin' out thar onthe desolate plains, sculped by my own hands. Old Roarin' Bufflerhisself put seven holes in this bar'l 'fore his head went in. The headair nicely pickled an' perfectly natteral, ladies an' gents; an' for theprivilege o' seein' it I ax only a small collection. Will you kindlycirkilate my hat, an' be keerful not to take out more'n you drop in."
Whereupon, having handed down his battered slouch hat, Ike paused, wipedhis face with a dirty bandanna, and seated himself upon his scarredbarrel.
"He put every hole in that with his own revolver, I bet you!" whisperedTerry. "The old fraud!"
"A convenient way of drinking the whiskey," murmured Harry. "If thebarrel wasn't his, he can claim the Indians did it, you know."
"Well, we can tell him about the first hole, all right," scolded theindignant Terry. "And so can other people."
"Now for the head," invited Harry.
The hat had been returned to Ike, who eyed the contents doubtfully,shook them over, and stowed them in his pocket with a scowl.
"Six bits air a mighty measley sum to pay for the privilege an'eddication o' seein' the actual head o' the biggest, fiercest Injun whoever terrerized the West till he tuk arter the wrong pusson, but I'llshow him to you, jest the same."
So saying, Ike reached into the barrel, and extracting his prize, heldit up. Harry nudged Terry; staring, Terry saw, recognized, gasped.
"Thunder Horse! Aw----"
"Do you know, I kind of expected that," alleged Harry. "I kind of feltit was coming."
The face of the severed head was assuredly the hideous face of ThunderHorse, the drunken Kiowa; and the hair was the Kiowa's hair.
"Thunder Horse died because of his leg, and Ike found him and cut offhis head!" scoffed Terry. "I'm going straight to the wagon and show thewhole thing up. We'll make Ike look sick--that old blow and his barreland his 'big-chief' head!"
"No," opposed Harry. "Wait. There's no use in showing Ike up now. We'llsave our ammunition."
"Well, I'm mighty glad old Thunder Horse is gone, anyhow," observedTerry, as they went back to the cart. "He was bad medicine."
The Ohio party were starting on. So the boys from the Big Blue put Dukeand Jenny to work again and fell in with the procession wending broadway up the shallow valley of the Republican.
Once every day the procession opened to give passage to the stageswestward bound on the trail; and at last stages eastward bound,returning to Leavenworth, were met. They were assailed with all kinds ofquestions, but they brought little news of importance, and apparentlylittle gold.
Many people eastward bound, ahorse or afoot, also were met.
"Turn back, every one of you," they advised. "Folks are going outfaster'n they're coming in. Some of 'em don't even stop to unhitch theirteams. Picks and spades are offered at fifteen cents apiece, and notakers, and the man who makes fifty cents a day is lucky."
"Auraria's burned and we've hanged the boomers," proclaimed anothersquad.
And another squad, trudging along, warned earnestly:
"Look out for the man with buckskin patches on his breeches. He's theleader of the gang who's robbing the pilgrims. Remember the buckskinpatches. There's no elephant--only jackasses."
Not few in the procession did turn back, especially when the water andfuel began to fail, as wider and more bare and sandy the valley became.Soon there were several marches without water at all, for the river hadsunk into the sand. The choking dust floated high, the sun was burninghot. The majority of the animals were sore-footed, from the gravel andcactus and brush. Duke, who had been behaving nobly, seemed to havestrained his shoulder and was limping. Jenny was gaunter than ever.
The trail had veered to the southwest--to strike, it was reported, somecreeks, and Cherry Creek itself.
"That's another trail yonder to the south, isn't it?" spoke Harry, onemorning.
"Yes; and wagons on it!" exclaimed Terry. "Maybe it's the Smoky H
illtrail, or the people from the Santa Fe trail."
The "Root Hog or Die" professor, who tramped with them while his oxenfollowed of their own accord, consulted a map that he carried.
"I think they must be from the Smoky Hill route," he said.
The two lines of travel approached each other, and at evening were aboutto join. Terry uttered a cheer.
"I see the wheel-barrow man!" he cried. "They're the Smoky Hill crowd,all right."
"They look pretty well used up," remarked Harry. "Must have had a hardtrip."
The wheel-barrow man, pushing bravely, was in the van. His barrowwobbled, and the wheel was reinforced with rawhide, but he himself wasas cheery as ever when the Big Blue outfit welcomed him.
"Yes, terrible hard trip," he acknowledged. "Some of us near died withthirst, and I hear tell that several wagons were burnt for fuel, so's tocook food and keep the folks from starving. But those of us who are leftare still going."
"Same here," asserted Harry. "How far to the mountains, do you reckon?"
"Better than a hundred miles, but we'll get there."
The next day the pilgrims from the Smoky Hill trail and the pilgrimsfrom the Republican trail traveled on together, with every eye eagerlyset ahead, for the first sight of the mountains.
"I see 'em! Hooray!
"There's the land o' gold, boys!"
"Those are the Rocky Mountains! We're almost through."
"They're awful small for their size, aren't they?" quavered a woman.
They did appear so. They were like a band of low hummocky clouds in thewestern horizon. But the next morning, when the outfits climbed over agravelly ridge that grew a few pines, one after another they cheeredjoyfully again. Hats were waved, sunbonnets were flourished. Themountains seemed much closer--they loomed grandly in a semi-circle fromsouth to north; their crests were white, their slopes were green andgray.
"Where's Pike's Peak?"
Everybody wanted to know that. The "Root Hog or Die" professor consultedhis map, for information.
"I rather think Pike's Peak is the last peak we see, to the south," hemused. "That to the far north is called Long's Peak."
"Where are the diggin's, then?"
"Well, they're somewhere in between."
From the piny ridge the route descended along the side of a brushyvalley pleasantly dotted with cottonwoods and other leafy trees, andstruck the head of a creek course--and presently another trail on which,from the south, still other pilgrim outfits were hastening northward atbest speed.
Where the trail from the east joined with this second trail from thesouth a signboard faced, pointing north, with the words: "Santa Fe-SaltLake Trail. Cherry Creek Diggin's, 70 m."
"Cherry Creek at last!" affirmed Harry, that evening. "Whew, but thatmountain air tastes good!"
Now this combined trail on northwest to the diggin's was a well-traveledtrail indeed, deep with sand and dust. Occasionally it dipped into thecreek bed, which in places was wide enough and dry enough for the teams.The mountains were on the left--distant thirty miles, declared theprofessor, although the greenhorns declared they were within a shortwalk. High rolling plains were on the right.
A few prospectors were encountered, already digging and washing in thecreek, or scouting about. From the last night's camp a little bevy oflights could be seen, ahead--the diggin's at the mouth of the creek!During the next morning----
"There's the river! There's the Platte!" announced voices, indicating aline of cottonwoods before.
Wagons coming down from the north, by the Platte trail, also could beseen, making for a collection of tents and huts gathered near where theCherry Creek apparently emptied into the Platte.
Much excitement reigned throughout the procession. The wheel-barrow manalready had trundled ahead. Duke limped gamely, and Jenny kept her longears pricked forward. Now it was every outfit for itself, in order tosecure the best location and get to work.
In mid-afternoon the trail forked, and signs directed: "To the left forAuraria, the coming metropolis," and "Straight ahead for Denver City."Men were stationed here, beseeching the pilgrims to settle in Auraria,or in Denver, and make their fortunes. The men were red-faced andperspiring and earnest.
Auraria was the older, and on the mountain side of the creek--had thenewspaper! Denver was the better built, and the more enterprising, wason the trail side of the creek and had the stage office.
"What'll we do, Harry?" panted Terry, as momentarily the Limited halted,held by the confused press in front, bombarded and undecided.
"Keep a-going straight ahead," said Harry. "That's been our program. Ifwe don't like Denver we can cross to Auraria, but blamed if I can seemuch difference between 'em."
And that was true. On the flat ground along the shallow Cherry Creek laysprawled an ugly collection of log huts and dingy tents and Indiantepees of buffalo hides, with people moving busily among them, and ahost of emigrant wagons and animals and camps on the outskirts. All theflat on both sides of the creek was dingy and dusty, with the brushcrushed down or gleaned clean for forage and fuel.
East stretched the wide plains; west was the cottonwood timber markingthe Platte River, and beyond the river, some distance, were bare hills,grayish and reddish, and behind them the real mountains, rising rockyand high until their snow crests gleamed against the sky.
Distant, a line of gold-seekers with wagons and with packs seemed to betraveling into the mountains; and down along the Platte were enteringDenver, from the north, other gold-seekers, to take their places.
A hum of voices welled, filling the air with excitement.
"Shucks! Is this all there is?" complained Terry. "I don't see anycity. The whole thing isn't as big as Manhattan, even."
"And not half as good-looking," added Harry.
But there was not much space for halting to criticize. The processionwas pressing on, jostling, crowding--spreading out, some of it to findcamping spots at once, some to drive farther on. With the cart creaking,and Duke limping badly, Jenny stumbling and grunting, and Shep, dustyand burry, pacing soberly at the rear, the Pike's Peak Limited enteredDenver City.
"Hope we see Sol," ventured Harry, as they threaded their way among thefirst tents, and several roofless cabins, located out where signs stuckin the bare ground proclaimed: "Denver City Town Co. Fine building lotsfor sale."
In front of the tent flaps, and in the cabin doorways, men in boots,with trousers tucked in, and in flannel shirts, red or blue, weresitting, gazing abroad, but none of these was Sol.
Further along, the road took on the semblance of a street--thronged withemigrants; booted, whiskered men in their flannel shirts, and wearingrevolvers; Indians, Mexicans, oxen, and dogs.
"I don't see Sol, though," commented Terry, searching about among thosefaces, every one of which was strange to him.
"No, but I see plenty of men with buckskin patches on their breeches,"answered Harry. "They're the old-timers, I reckon. Wonder if the name ofany of 'em is Russell."
The passage of the half-buffalo and the yellow mule hitched tandemattracted considerable attention, and a volley of bantering remarks. Buta chorus of whoops and a general rush made Harry and Terry glancebehind.
"A stage is coming. We'd better get out of the way, hadn't we?"suggested Terry.
"Right-o!" And Harry, driving, drew aside to a clear place opposite along one-story canvas-roofed log building which announced: "DenverHouse." This was the hotel.
The stage jingled up; and while the passengers piled out was surroundedby a jostling crowd of whiskered, red-shirted and blue-shirted andbuckskin-shirted (as well as buckskin-patched) residents.
As it rolled away again, to put up for the night, Terry heard himselfand Harry hailed by a familiar voice, at last.
"Well, I declare! Got through, did you--buffalo and mule and dog andall! What kind of a trip did you have?"