Part 15

"Very nearly smothered; as to the feeling, it was merely a confused sense of noise, darkness, nothingness, nowhereness, and the sudden end of all things. Can you understand such a combination of sensations?

"Here in the park," our friend continued, "we don't mind the winter much. We have enough people to keep one another company, and we have no end of fun snowshoeing."

"What sort of snow-shoes?" I break the silence to ask.

"The Norwegian _skidors_,--thin boards, ten or twelve feet long, and slightly turned up in front. There is an arrangement of straps about a third of the way back from the front end, and that's all there is of it, though it's a good deal if you don't know how to manipulate--"

"_Ped_ipulate, would hit it closer, wouldn't it?"

"Suit yourself: you won't choose your language so carefully when you suddenly find yourself filled full of snow, after an involuntary header, and one or both of your snowshoes going on down the mountain like a race-horse. If you stay here a winter, though, you must learn, unless you are willing to remain cooped up in your cabin from November till May. There is no other possible way of getting about. Before the railway came, all our mail was snowshoed in, and it was very likely to be delayed two or three weeks at a time. Then we have debating societies. 'Resolved, That a burro has no rights a miner is bound to respect,' was our first question one winter--and parties and balls. Formerly, in the older communities, merchants could easily calculate the extent of their sales during the cold months, but those in the new camps, the first winter, sometimes saw hard times.

"We came very near a famine in Rico, the first winter," our visitor continues. "Nobody could tell just how many people would stay, the winter closed in unexpectedly early, and, all together, before New Year's day, it began to be whispered that the supply of 'grub' was short. As fast as the stores diminished, prices went up, until they were nearly fabulous. Everybody was on short rations alike. The hotel would give beds, but no board. One day a miner came in from over the range on snowshoes, and reached the hotel nearly dead with hunger and exhaustion. Pfeiffer took pity on him, as an exceptional case. 'I gifs you your supper,' he said, 'und a ped, und I gifs you one meal to-morrow; after that you must rustle for yourself.' Flour, bacon, ham, sugar, coffee, everything, even tobacco, gave out in the shops; and had it not been that one of the mines which had laid in a large stock of food, shut down and so sold out, it is probable that the whole camp would have been obliged to have dragged themselves through the depth of a hundred miles of February snows, out into the lower country. Comical stories are told of how the first burro-train load of provisions was distributed."

But in spite of all this isolation, this necessity for elaborate preparation, the arctic altitude and polar length of the "season of snows and sins," as Swinburne phrases it, the winter is really the best time in which to work these silver mines, and the impression that the San Juan district must be abandoned for half the year, is entirely wrong, when any thorough system of operations has been projected. Well sheltered and abundantly fed, removed from the temptations of the bar-room, which can only be got at by a frightfully fatiguing and perilous trip on snow-shoes, and settled to the fact that a whole winter's work lies ahead, there is no season when such steady progress is possible, either in "dead-work" development or in taking out ore preparatory to shipment in the spring.

Two little streams come down to the Animas at Silverton--Mineral creek and Cement creek--the former passing between Sultan and The Anvil, and the latter between The Anvil and Tower mountains. Up Mineral creek a dozen miles we find Red mountain, the scene of the latest and richest discoveries in the San Juan, but which will be considered elsewhere. Cement creek has several good mines, while beyond, almost on the divide between the Animas and the Uncompahgre, lies the Poughkeepsie Gulch camp, which was, not long ago, the locality of a "boom;" and I have the opinion of a very competent judge, that there probably is no equally limited district in the whole region, Red mountain being perhaps excepted, where so much good ore exists.

Still farther, at the very head of Cement creek, is located the important Ross Basin group of mines, worked by English capital, as are many other claims in the San Juan mountains. A neighboring mine is remarkable for producing an ore of bismuth in such quantity as to give it great mineralogical interest. Bismuth is exceedingly rare. In the United States it is obtained only to a small amount in Connecticut. Saxony furnishes commerce its main supply, procuring it at the metallurgical works of Freiburg, where it is associated with the lead ores, and is extracted from the cupel furnace after large quantities of lead have been refined, being accumulated in the rich litharge, or liquid dross, near the conclusion of the process. This litharge is treated with acid, and the bismuth precipitated as a chloride by dilution with water. The making of lily white and other complexion compounds is the chief use to which bismuth is applied. The Madame assures me that the effect upon the skin is very noxious,--but how could she know that?

Crossing the divide, passing the "Mountain Queen" district, and proceeding eastward down the west branch of the Animas to the town of Animas Forks, another prosperous and populous mining area is reached. Mineral Point, where twenty or thirty rich veins crop out, is covered with claim stakes until it looks like a young vineyard. Its ores, in general, are dry,--that is, contain little lead; and some streaks show the beautiful ruby silver. Yet further down, on the eastern side of the river, lie the partly developed silver veins and ledges of gold quartz in Picayune gulch, where hydraulic machinery is used; and opposite is Brown's gulch, where galena and gray copper occur.

The river in this part of the valley struggles through a close and pretty cañon, at the lower end of which stands Eureka,--a neat village nestling among trees. Here, too, are concentration works, and the headquarters of several companies operating in Eureka, Minnie, and Maggie gulches.

The wall-like sides of the mountains shutting close in together from Eureka down to Howardsville, show "mineral stains" everywhere, and the eye can trace dozens of veins slanting up and down the dark cliffs, and study how they thicken here and pinch there, or just beyond perhaps disappear altogether, upsetting all the old theories. At Howardsville, which was the center of everything years ago, the reviewer diverges up Cunningham gulch, completing the circle of his inquiries, for from Howardsville to Silverton it is only four miles.

Cunningham is a good type of those huge ravines the western man calls gulches. Its real walls are several hundred yards apart,--Galena and Green mountains on the north, King Solomon on the south--but from each have tumbled long sloping banks of débris, that join at their bases into a series of ridges. Among these a turbulent stream seeks its irregular way, and over them the traveler must climb wearily, making frequent detours to avoid huge pieces of rock that have fallen bodily from the cliffs, and have been rolled by their great weight to the very bottom of the gorge. Here and there the walls are sundered, and down a side ravine is tossed a foaming line of cataracts; or some hollow among the peaks (themselves out of sight) will turn its gathered drainage over the cliff, to fall two or three thousand feet in a resounding series of cascades, white and filmy and brilliant against its dark and glistening background. Wherever any soil has been able to gather upon these loose rocks, if some curvature of the cliffs protects from the sweeping destruction of snow avalanches, heavy spruce timber grows, and this, with lighter tinted patches of poplars, or willow-thickets in wet places, or a tangle of briers hiding the sharp rocks and beloved of the woodchucks and conies, give all there is of vegetation.

But these are all minor features, under-foot. Overhead tower the rosy and gleaming monuments of that old time "when the gods were young and the world was new;"--cliffs rising so steeply that only here and there can they be climbed, and studded with domes and pinnacles so slender and lofty that, under our unsteady glance, they seem to totter and swim vaguely through the azure concave.

Amid this magnificence of rock-work, spanned by a violet edged vault which is not sky but only color,--the purest mass of color in the universe,--passes the trail and stage-road cut over the lofty crest to the sources of the Rio Grande, and thence down through Antelope park to beautiful Wagon-Wheel Gap, and the railway again. Here, too, are rich silver mines, lowest down the "Pride of the West," next the "Green Mountain," and, last of all, "Highland Mary," standing almost on the summit of the pass.

* * * * *

The central point and outlet of all this district is Silverton, and its founders preëmpted almost the only site for a town of any consequence in the whole region. Yet she has less than one thousand acres to spread herself over. Engulfed amid lofty peaks, a little park lies as level as a billiard-table, and as green, breaking into bluffs and benches northward where the river finds its way down.

When, three and twenty years ago, miners were amazed at the wealth disclosed in the mines of central Colorado, eager prospectors began to penetrate yet deeper into the recesses of the jumbled ranges that lay behind the front rank. Among the boldest of these was a certain Colonel Baker, reputed to have got his title as a confederate officer, who organized a large party of men--some say two hundred in number--to go on an exploration of what was then called the Pike's Peak belt, including nearly all the region between that historic mountain and the head of the Gila river in Arizona. Marching eastward to Pueblo, and thence by the old Mexican wagon-road through Conejos and Tierra Amarilla, Baker and his men worked northward along the San Juan and Animas, prospecting for and finding more or less bars of gold-gravel (you may get "colors" anywhere in this part of Colorado), till finally, in the summer of 1860, he crossed the range, and discovered the deep-sunken nook which bears his name.

Erecting a central camp here, these prospectors climbed all the mountains, and pushed up every ravine, in search of gold, but found small encouragement. The silver they knew of, but had no means of working. Winter came, and they gathered together and built cabins in the thick timber at the mouth of the cañon. The snow packed deep about them, a provision train intended for their succor was captured by the Indians, who became aggressive, sickness set in, and the horrors of starvation stood at their very doors. This terror, added to their lack of success, overcame even pioneer patience and philosophy. Reviling Baker as a cheat, who had brought them, under false pretenses, into this terrible state, they were about to hang him to one of the groaning pines that mocked their misery with a loud pretense of grief in every storm, when some slight help came and the colonel's neck was saved. The following summer, all who had not died crawled out of their prison-park and returned to civilization.

It was not until ten years later that any persons went to Baker's park to stay, and then they were extremely few in number. Almost the first result of this second advent of prospectors was the unearthing of the "Little Giant" gold mine in Arastra gulch--a narrow ravine where were at once erected a log village and an arastra with which to crush the quartz, worked by the little stream which trickles down from the snowbanks. Simultaneously came the discovery of silver leads, a fact that speedily got abroad, induced a little boom, and set Howardsville on its feet as a camp of some importance and magnificent expectations.

Five miles below, Silverton was laid out straight and square, became the county-seat, and attracted most of the new-comers as a place of residence. At first, of course, all the buildings were of logs, and bore roofs of dirt. To-day the village has perhaps fifteen hundred permanent residents; churches, schools, newspapers, the telegraph, and all the appurtenances of frontier civilization. It is characteristic of these mountain towns that they spring full size into both existence and dignity. There is no Topsy-growth at all; rather a Minerva-like maturity from the start.

For several years no wagon-road entered Baker's park, and the only communication between it and the outside world was by saddle animals. As the local paper gently expressed it, it "was somewhat deprived of easy transportation." Goods and machinery of every sort had to be brought in on the backs of the tough and patient little Mexican donkeys, toiling across the terrible heights under burdens almost as bulky as themselves. The whole town would be alive with a general jubilation when the tinkling bells of the first train of jacks was heard in the spring, for that meant the end of a six months' siege in the midst of impassable snow.

Though these mountains are yet full of men who go about all day with a big six-shooter in their belt; and though the main streets of Silverton (like other frontier places) contain too many drinking and gambling saloons, yet the town has never passed through such a rough history as most mining camps see, and it is to-day the most orderly village in the whole region. This is chiefly due to the quietly determined attitude its best citizens have taken, and their fixed purpose not to let the lawless rule.

In the summer of 1881, however, the remnants of the gang of desperadoes who had infested Durango during the winter, tried to make Silverton a rendezvous, and one night killed an inoffensive and highly esteemed officer, who was aiding a sheriff to arrest one of their number. It was the culmination of many atrocities, and the citizens at once resuscitated their Vigilance Committee. One of the ruffians was apprehended the same night, and quietly hung the following evening. Large rewards were offered, detectives and sheriffs set at work, and finally the leading spirit of evil was captured by the treachery of his most trusted ally in previous villainies. After some delay this prisoner was brought to Silverton in charge of his Judas-like comrade, who took his reward and rode swiftly away, distrusting the pledge of the citizens that he should go safely out of town. This was on Friday. The prisoner was locked up, and strong relays of heavily armed guards, chosen from men of respectability and standing in the community relieved each other at the jail night and day, until Sunday morning came, and with it a cold, dismal storm.

All day the rain fell steadily down, and the air was clammy with chill mist. Dense banks of clouds were packed into the dripping gulches, capped the hidden summits and clung in ragged masses among the trees that darkly clothed the sides of the mountains. Occasional gusts of wind drove the storm hard against the window panes, but for the most part rain fell quietly, the streets became avenues of inky paste, and the darkness of evening gathered early about the town, settling like a pall upon all the waiting people in it.

Everyone knew, though the majority could hardly say why, that the hour of fate had come. As the night thickened, men gathered on the corners nearest the jail, and, unmindful of the persistent rain, stood talking in low tones to two or three listeners whose faces were close together and strangely serious. Moving here and there were other little groups, their footsteps hardly heard in the soft mire, and their voices hushed,--moving chiefly up and down the alley where the jail stood.

The saloons and gambling-rooms were open, but the dance-hall, which last night echoed so late to the clatter of heavy boots and the shouts of half drunken revelry, was closed, and the few women who haunted the other liquor dens seemed to have forgotten their coarse jibes and laid aside their accustomed wiles. The soft rattle of the thin faro-checks, the clink of silver lost and won, and the louder crack of billiard-balls, were heard as usual, only more distinctly, while the monotonous "ante-up, gents!" "Are you all ready?" "The deuce wins," and so on, of the imperturbable dealers, mingled in a sort of minor music to which all sharper sounds were accordantly attuned. But the players were moderate in their stakes, and the ordinary excitement of the smoke-dimmed rooms was hushed.

Still fell the rain drearily. The stern guards about the jail hugged their rifles under their arms, to keep them dry at the breech, and now and then tipped streams of water out of the broad hollow brims of their _sombreros_. In the log gaol the murderer lay upon his couch, apparently sound asleep, and the inside sentinels rested their guns on their knees and counted the moments until their watch should be over. Nine o'clock came and passed without note. Nine o'clock and thirty minutes was marked on the cold face of the clock, when the key grated in the iron lock, the door opened a little way and three masked men glided in, shutting the door behind them. One brought with him a rope, which he fastened into a staple set in one of the rafters, standing upon a chair which gave him only height enough just to reach the beam. Another touched the prisoner, and told him his time had come. That afternoon he had assured his keepers that they would see "as brave a death as ever went out of that prison." It was no surprise, then, to see this boy (for he was scarcely twenty) rise coolly from his bed and walk to where the chair had been placed underneath the dangling noose. Perhaps he would have liked to have shaken hands, had not his arms been manacled behind his back; but instead, pausing a moment ere he took his place, and without a tremor, he simply said, "Well, _adios_, boys!" Then, stepping up, he inclined his head and himself set it well within the noose. There was a touch of the rope to tighten the knot, a snatching aside of the chair, and the outlaw had "gone over the range," beyond all further harm or doing of it.

Then the jail was locked, and few knew, even at midnight, whether or not the retribution had come. There was no boisterousness, no gloating over vengeance satisfied, less of mirth and curiosity, than I ever saw in a community where an execution under the sanction of law was taking place. It was more an awe-struck feeling of a terrible necessity, as if an impending calamity was at hand, or some great affliction present.

Next morning the coroner's jury met, and a ray of light was shot across the sombre picture; the verdict said:

"_Came to his death from hanging 'round!_"

XIV

BEYOND THE RANGES.

All the means of action-- The shapeless masses, the materials-- Lie everywhere about us. --LONGFELLOW.

Three districts require mention before this corner of the state is bidden farewell,--Ophir, Rico and the La-Plata mountains.

Ophir lies fifteen miles east of Silverton and on the Pacific slope, for it is at one source of the Rio Dolores. It is reached by a wagon-road up Mineral Creek, which is one of the most "scenic routes" I know of in Colorado. At first there is not much to call forth admiration; nearing the top, however, a remarkable picture presents itself. In a closely guarding circle of purplish peaks, stand two isolated mountains of entirely different character and most striking appearance. Instead of the vertical cliffs, serrated and splintered summits and ragged gray of the majority of the mountains, these are as rounded and smooth on top as if they had been shaved by a lawn mower, and rise in unbroken slopes far above the blackish masses of timber which closely envelope their bases. It is their color, however, that makes them so grandly conspicuous. Long strokes of orange and rust color extend up and down from the spruces to the apex, streaked with bright red and set off with upright lines of glowing yellow, all softly blended together and crossed by a crowd of hair-lines, wavy and level with the horizon, like the plumage of a canvas-back duck. Stand where you will on the eastern side of this divide between the Animas and the San Miguel, and these great, smooth, cushiony hills of red, tower up level with your eye, burning under the sunlight.

At last the road rises above timber line, but even to the last verge, the soil under the trees is crowded with flowers and all sorts of pretty herbage, among which the strawberry takes precedence in point of abundance. Then the track lies underneath beetling cliffs which have crumbled into long tall, and the pass itself is only the triangular depression between two opposite slides. On one side here the rock is brown and broken almost as fine as railway ballast; on the other the fragments rule much larger in size, are of bluish trachyte and completely covered everywhere with a stone-lichen hardly thicker than paint, which gives them a decidedly green color, while the brown rocks opposite are entirely devoid of lichens.

Down this jumble of fallen rocks--the scene of one incessant slow avalanche from the weather-crumbled crests still remaining above--the road passes by a steep and tortuous grade, made somewhat smooth by filling the crevices with small stuff; but the result would make the ghost of McAdam turn a shade paler.

These vast "slides" are a prominent feature in every landscape in southern Colorado. The volcanic rock with which all the mountains are capped, has a natural cleavage in two directions, and rapidly disintegrates, even under the air. On the quiet, still days of midsummer, you continually hear the rattle of pieces of rock which have fallen untouched from some scarp or pinnacle, and are racing down the steep talus below. The winter, however, is the time of greatest destruction. Into the thousand cracks and crannies the rains and snows of autumn pour floods of water, which penetrate the inmost recesses of the well-seamed crags. Then comes a frost. The little veins and pockets of water expand with a sudden force, combined and irresistible. Perhaps some huge projection of cliff flies to pieces as though filled full of exploding dynamite; perhaps a stronger body of frost behind it pries off the whole mass at once, and it dashes head-long down the side of the mountain, to scatter widely its cracked shell and leave the core a huge bowlder, which crashes its way far into the struggling woods at the foot of the rough slope. This process goes on, season after season, until finally the thousands of feet of summit, which once towered proudly above the mountain's base, have been crumbled down to a level with the top of the debris-slope. If the rock is very soft, then the process goes on with each fallen block, until it is reduced to soil and forms a smooth, grassy slope, or a clean shaven but barren slide, like the rich red hills we saw on the other side of Lookout; but if the fragments are hard, then gradually the bushes and grass will creep up, and the forest will follow as high as climate and snow-fall will let it grow, and above will be a rounded crest of broken lava, like Veta mountain--the worst thing to climb in the wide world.