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CHAPTER XXX
The Overland Stage Line

IN the past few months we had crawled many hundred miles with a slow moving ox train. Several weeks had the writer spent with a few intimate associates, while convoying a small horse-train.

Possibly a thousand miles had he covered on horseback, often quite alone, with much opportunity for silent contemplation and an occasional resultant desire for better company than himself. Nearly two weeks had been passed in the heterogeneous but interesting companionship of the boarding-house mule train, with its peculiar vicissitudes.

A time having arrived when return to the States seemed desirable, I decided, like many travelers, to conclude the season of travel on the highest scale of elegance possible, and incidentally to profit by the experience of still another form of transportation. Having at command the two hundred and fifty dollars required for the purchase of a ticket to the Missouri River, and possibly a sufficient margin to pay for the meals at the various stations, I booked by the swift-going Ben Holliday coaches, patronized generally, as I was informed, only by the wealthy, or by those whose business was sufficiently important to justify the outlay.

To reach Denver, the first town on the route, required seven days and six nights of continuous travel with no avoidable stops except for meals and relays of horses. Naturally for this long ride the choice of seats was a matter of much importance. Any human being, in whom there remains any life whatever, desires now and then to change his position, also to secure an occasional doze without the risk of having his neck broken by a sudden jolt, while sleeping. The back seat with its ample head rest was, therefore, the first choice. I was compelled to take the middle seat, the least desirable. There being nine passengers, the three inside seats were occupied each by three persons, opportunity, however, being left for riding at times with the driver.

At exactly eight-thirty o'clock on the morning of Thursday, October 25th, the driver was on his seat of the coach in front of the Salt Lake House. The baggage and mail had been carefully strapped into the boot on the rear, and the passengers were in their assigned places within.

As was the invariable custom, a crowd of onlookers thronged the sidewalk, to watch the outgoing coach. The spirited horses, such as usually were selected for the runs into and out from stations where they were much observed, were fresh and eager. A few grand flourishes of the driver's whip ended by sending the lash out over the lead-horses with a sharp crack, and the team was off in grand form. As the outfit speeded down the street, it was a dress parade, advertising Ben Holliday's stage line. The first mile of this travel may be compared with the alluring picture advertisements with which modern railroad companies attract summer tourists. The real thing in tourist travel is better seen when one walks through a car crowded with weary, perspiring, dust-begrimed recreation-seeking passengers, who bear little resemblance to the fine and jauntily dressed figures paraded in the beautiful booklets. And so, when an hour later we traveled slowly up the long ascending grade and muddy roads in Parley's Canyon, which were saturated with melting snow, our plight seemed to be in striking contrast with our spectacular start.

There was but one woman among the passengers, and she with her husband occupied the front seat, facing me. Everybody "got acquainted" very quickly, after the manner of the West, and each told of the many prominent people in their home state, with whom they were intimate, and by four o'clock, at which time the eating station known as Kimball's was reached, each had become convinced that he was one of a party of distinguished and agreeable travelers.

It was after dusk, when with a fresh team we were whirling down the steep curves of Silver Creek Canyon with horses on a full run, urged on by the Jehu on the box. We were making up lost time, for the roads had been heavy. At our right we were following the tortuous brink of dizzy precipices, the bottoms of which were lost to sight in the gloom of the mountain shadows.

A passenger on the front seat, while holding tightly to the window frame, pushed his head outside and called at the top of his voice, "For Heaven's sake, driver, go slower." The only response was a renewed cracking of the whip and a more rapid clatter of the horses' hoofs upon the rocky road. As the coach plunged over an obstruction one passenger, who was changing his position on the back seat, was lifted to the roof of the coach by a sudden jolt and tumbled over the middle seat where he lay spread out, grasping the passengers in front for support. The horses speeded on just the same, for lost time must be made up on the down grades. All the passengers had been accustomed to travel by stages, but it was remarked that at the beginning of each journey of this character the apparent perils of rapid night riding in the mountains were more fully realized than after several days of tension. When the long up-grade of Echo Canyon was reached, and for hours the progress was slower, affairs again settled down to a peaceful condition. While some passengers maintained a desultory conversation others dropped into fitful dozes, usually brought to an end by a short, vigorous snore.

Early on the second morning, while the muddy ground was covered with white frost, we rode up to the breakfast station at Bear River, and an opportunity was given to relax the tense muscles of the legs, which had been pinioned down for the greater part of twenty-four hours. What would be their condition two weeks later?

Another night closed in upon us, accompanied by a cold, driving rain. The passengers pulled their caps down over their eyes, drew their wraps snugly about their bodies, and sank back into the most restful positions possible. By common consent nearly all of the men extended their feet to the opposite seat, to relieve their limbs from the continued confinement. The husband of my vis-à-vis negotiated for privileges on a portion of my seat for the feet of his wife, with his assurance of her full reciprocity, to which interchange I gratefully assented. The woman said that she was dying to stretch. I was quite willing to save her life by such an agreeable exchange of courtesy.

At intervals of twelve or fourteen miles the driver gave vent to a series of war-whoops, which announced his approach to some little hut where horses were to be exchanged. While this was being done by the dim light of a lantern, some passenger was sure to put his head out of the window and ask, "Where are we now?" The reply that it was Lone Tree or Salt Wells, conveyed but little information, as the stations were almost nowhere, being simply points in space marked by the stage company for convenience. Little could be seen from the coach except the stable and the vague outlines of some overshadowing hill behind it, and the men with the horses barely visible in the soft glow of the lantern.

The drizzly autumn rain continued to fall until, in the gray dusk of the early morning, while the other passengers seemed to be dozing, I became conscious of a slowly increasing dip of the coach, which continued until the vehicle rolled upon its side. Then came a brief period of profound silence, as if all were pausing to learn if the evolution was really complete, and if we were not now to roll further down into some deep ravine. In the meantime we were holding firmly one to another, but no sound of distress indicated that any one was injured.

The first voice that came to our ears was from the driver outside, who uttered a few well-assorted oaths, which were addressed to himself, in a low tone of voice, but were, however, an assurance to us that all was well and that he was in his normal condition. It was somewhat difficult for each passenger to extricate himself from the common mass of humanity with which he was implicated, and to get the several members of his own body clearly identified and segregated from those belonging to others.

One man, who was on the upper stratum, succeeded in escaping through the door, which now opened skyward, and emerged upon what had become the top of the coach, from which observatory he saw the driver standing quietly by his horses, deep in meditation, awaiting developments.

We were on comparatively level ground. The upset had been caused by a deep rut, and its ending was as gentle as could be wrought by human hands. The passengers were lifted out one by one, and with their combined assistance the vehicle was righted upon its wheels, and we rolled on to the next station at Green River, where that swift stream was forded. The bottoms of the Concord coaches were water tight, so that very deep streams could be crossed with a fair prospect in many cases of bringing the passengers through dry shod.

As a precautionary measure I took a seat on the top of the coach with a fellow traveler. In the course of our morning ride he informed me that the man in the coach, who was traveling with his alleged wife, was a professional gambler and the proprietor of a resort where was played the seductive game of poker, in which miners and frontiersmen make many hazardous ventures. We had been impressed with the spontaneous generosity with which, at every possible opportunity, he had proffered to each passenger the contents of one of the black bottles which were convenient in his satchel. It was offered as night came on as a protection against chills, and again at the dawn of day as an appetizer to stomachs already craving for food. Before fording any stream his whiskey was recommended, with the suggestion that there was danger of our coming in contact with water. After crossing the stream it was poured out as a libation in pious thankfulness that all were safely over. By the end of the third day he seemed oblivious of passing events.

After the storms had passed away and we were under bright skies and in a clear, exhilarating atmosphere, I spent the greater part of my time upon the top of the coach. The right of way was universally accorded to the coaches, because they carried the United States mail. Even in the canyons or other narrow roadways, other travelers, who were now and then passed, invariably drove out of the road, if possible, as soon as they saw the stage approaching. After the morning of the fifth day large numbers of antelope and deer as well as a few elk were seen. As each passenger had some sort of rifle, a fusillade of shots was often sent somewhat at random toward the unsuspecting animals, but usually without hurting them, for the stage was rarely halted for so trifling a reason as to enable sportsmen to aim with precision.

On the sixth day of our ride we were crossing the high Laramie plains. With three other passengers I got on to the top of the coach. The driver had six lively bronchos for his team. A stiff east gale was driving into our faces. On a smooth down grade the whip was cracked a few times over the horses' heads to urge them to the limit of their speed, and all were on a keen gallop, which is the favorite gait of the broncho. The passengers pulled their caps tightly upon their heads that they might not be blown away.

"Gimme a match," said the driver, as with one hand he filled his pipe with some of the weed that seemed to be loose in his overcoat pocket, and then inserted the pipe stem between his teeth.

"You don't expect to light your pipe while facing this gale," exclaimed a Hebrew, who sat behind the driver.

"Mebbe I can." This reply resulted in a proposed wager of five dollars on condition that the pipe must be lighted with the first match used, the driver to hold the six lines and the whip in his hands and to keep the horses on a run.

"I'll cover it," said the driver. The money was placed in the hands of a passenger. The lash again cracked over the horses, when the team started with renewed vigor. The driver pulled his buckskin glove from his right hand and quickly placed its fingers in his left hand, in which he also held his lines and whip. Striking the match on the sole of his boot he inserted it into the open glove into which he also poked the bowl of his pipe, and in a moment the pipe was in successful operation. He reached over to the stakeholder and closed upon the $10.00, which he shoved into the pocket with the tobacco, remarking that it was dead easy, and that he had won money the same way on nearly every trip.

At the next home-station, where our driver would ordinarily be exchanged for another, it was found that because of delays no other driver was there for relief, and although he had already been on the box for several hours he must proceed with the stage.

He was not in a contented frame of mind, and therefore swore lustily as he mounted the seat, and with six fresh bronchos rushed the team until he reached Willow Springs. It appears that at the previous station he had received from the generous passenger in the coach a flask of whiskey, to aid him in keeping up his courage. Four fresh spirited horses were now hitched to the coach for the next fifteen mile's drive. The bleak gale caused all but the driver to go inside. The driver took a fresh draught from the flask, mounted the box and applied the whip in so brutal a manner that it became evident that he was drunk. One of the lead horses led in a run and it was clear that the driver had lost control both of himself and his team. While on one down hill course we found ourselves continuously outside the road, bounding over stones, with the horses in a panic and on a dead run. We were liable to be dumped at any moment. The passengers were on their feet, calling through the windows to the driver to stop. He was too drunk to reply audibly. Being the youngest passenger and rather slender and supple I crawled through the window over to the top of the swaying coach and slid down on the seat by the driver before being observed by him. Instantly the reins and whip were wrested from his lax grasp. No other act will enrage a professional horseman so thoroughly as this. The driver made a dive for the ribbons and swore that no man should take his horses. A single light blow upon his head convinced him that he must submit. He knew that he was helplessly drunk and his horses were running away. Having had some experience in managing a four-in-hand I was soon able, by watching the course, to turn them to the right up a hillside and bring them under control for a sufficient time to enable some of the passengers to escape. Some of them tried to pacify the rearing lead horses with kind words. One strong man consented to mount the box and hold the drunken driver in subjection until the outfit could be brought into the road. The other passengers, except the gambler, walked for half a mile until convinced that it would be safe to ride, when they returned to their seats. The regular driver begged for the reins, but his guard held him in custody until we were in sight of the home-station at Virginia Dale. The intoxicated coachman had come somewhat to a consciousness of the situation and in response to his pleadings he was permitted to drive the last half mile of his run. All the passengers except the gambler abandoned the coach and walked. He who remained was true to his profession and said that he would gamble on the risk and ride. The manager at Virginia Dale said that the driver would be discharged from the service, but our opinion was that it would be only for the night.

On the seventh day we skirted along the eastern slope of the mountains and now once more upon the plains we passed numerous herds of antelope and elk. At night we arrived at the Planter's House in Denver.

It had been eight years since George A. Jackson, a trapper and companion of Kit Carson, discovered gold in Cherry Creek near the present site of that settlement. As Pike's Peak (discovered by Zebulon M. Pike in 1806) was hardly a hundred miles distant and was the nearest object bearing a name that had appeared on the maps at any time prior to the Cherry Creek discovery, the diggings were first known as Pike's Peak Gold Mines.

In the following autumn of 1858 intelligence unaccompanied by any particulars reached the States by the way of Omaha that gold had been discovered at Pike's Peak. The news vividly colored by excitable men spread like wild fire through the country. Early in the following spring I saw a small train roll out with a party of adventurers whom I well knew to be on the alluring quest for Pike's Peak gold. One wagon bore the legend which later became familiar "Pike's Peak or bust." I saw members of the party in the autumn of the same year after they had returned "busted." Their hunt was like the storied search for the bag of gold at the foot of the rainbow. Before the rumor of the discovery of the precious metal had barely had time to rouse the average fortune seeker George Scofield of Council Bluffs, who had been a successful placer miner in California in 1849, joined with his neighbors, Samuel Dillon, William Kuhn, George Ritter, and Joseph Wheeler and late in 1858, fitting out a four ox team with supplies, started immediately for Pike's Peak. As they wandered among the foothills near the mountains the snow began to fly. With the view of establishing winter quarters they moved down to Cherry Creek and built the first log house erected in that part of the territory. This was the beginning of Denver. This record with the print of the house is furnished by Ira Scofield who was in at the house warming. Thus was planted, in what was then Kansas territory, another active aggressive center of population which was to open the slumbering wealth of the hills, rouse the latent energies of the soil and carve out the new state of Colorado. The rush of fortune-seekers, the majority of whom went broke, brought to the Cherry Creek country a legion of adventurers. The town, which at the beginning represented a shifting, unstable population, was named Denver in honor of James W. Denver, then Governor of Kansas territory.

After a brief sojourn in Denver I devoted a few days to a tour through the new mining district back in the mountain gulches, and later through South Park to Mount Lincoln, which at that time was said to be the highest peak in the Rocky Mountain Range, and which I ascended on horseback, finding it an easy task.

The petrified forest in South Park was then an interesting feature. There were numerous stumps of trees of massive proportions; some of them that I measured were eighteen feet in diameter. They stood near together in a slight depression, at an altitude of almost 10,000 feet. They were thoroughly petrified. The indication was that for a long period their trunks had been submerged to a height of 15 or 20 feet above their bases in a shallow lake of silicious waters, until the transformation to that height was complete. The tops not having been submerged doubtless decayed ages ago. With some labor I took home with me a large fragment from one great petrified stump, the rings of which in some places were clearly defined. On counting them across some level section it appeared, by ascertaining the number of rings to the inch, that it had required at least a thousand years for the tree to attain its growth. How many thousand years it had stood in that barren valley since it had been converted into stone no man can tell, but it is certain that the destructive hands of thoughtless men, in the brief period of seven or eight years after my visit, leveled all the stumps to the ground and used portions thereof in various constructive works. In short, there is little left of what should have been preserved intact as an interesting, geological phenomenon. The fireplaces and chimneys in a ranch owned by a Hollander, named Costello, where I once spent the night near this ancient forest, were built from broken sections of these petrified trees.

The Butterfield Overland Dispatch had been operating a line of stages by the Smoky Hill route for several weeks, and I proceeded onward from Denver by their coaches. As stated by Root in his volume The Overland Mail, this company within eighteen months of its establishment, and on account of financial difficulties brought on more or less by Indian depredations, was forced into liquidation.

Evidence that the Indians were very busy in endeavoring to prevent the running of these stages was unpleasantly convincing. On our first night out we passed the smoking ruins of a station that had been burned by the Indians within the preceding twenty-four hours. Discovering this state of affairs, the passengers kept their guns close at hand. Nearly all were provided with Spencer Carbines.

Having received advices that trouble of this nature was brewing, the driver had taken on board a quantity of provisions to be used in an emergency. This prophylactic measure proved exceedingly fortunate, because at the home station next beyond the one that was burned, the Indians had within a few hours appropriated everything of the nature of supplies that could be found there, and had then moved on eastward. For some strange reason this building was not then burned, nor were the keepers killed. Our party consisted now of seven passengers, one of whom was Governor Alfred Cumming. On entering the pillaged station we found a slender, youthful-looking man, with his young wife and infant child. They informed us that on that morning the Indians had closed in on their station, and as they were hungry after their raidings of the preceding night, the husband in desperation had welcomed them, and he with his little wife had been cooking for them until all supplies were exhausted. Their stock of provisions was replenished from the supply brought by our coach, and with some assistance from our driver they wearily cooked our breakfast, in which they were happy to share.

As all the operations were conducted in a single room, the Governor conversed with the young woman while she was preparing the meal. In reply to his questions she said that she and her husband had been alone the greater part of the time during the Indian troubles, and in fact since the station was built. She had no physician or nurse to assist her at any time, but she and her husband had been able to care for the stage passengers, who stopped for their meals, and had protected the company's horses to the best of their ability, yet some of them had been run off by the Indians.

The Governor interested the lady by unrolling a superb grizzly-bear skin, which he was taking to Washington as a gift to the President.

At one of the stations I observed a circular cellar roofed with earth so as to be fireproof, the sides being built up two or three feet above the surface of the ground and provided with port holes. This cellar, or fort, was connected with the station house by a subterranean passage, extending under the roadway, forming a tunnel about seventy feet in length. The cellar afforded a place of retreat, in case the station should be fired, and an excellent defense against attack.

Our driver remarked that the Indians were not the only objects of dread. He said that while bringing some passengers on a recent run out from Denver, he observed that they conferred frankly with one another on the best means for concealing their effects, as holdups were not infrequent. A lady innocently informed her fellow travelers that she had concealed $100 in her stocking and carried but $20 in her portemonnaie. The coach was duly held up at dusk by highwaymen. The attack was so sudden that no defense was made. Each passenger at the point of a revolver was made to pay tribute while the driver was held at the muzzle of a rifle. The woman trembling with fear delivered her portemonnaie and begged for her life. A skinny-looking miner, whose contribution seemed to be unsatisfactory, said to the active road agent of the gang, "If we can rake up another $100 somewhere, will you let us off?" "Yes," said the bandit, "if you will do it d – d quick."

"It's in that woman's stocking," said the apparently frightened miner. The money was promptly secured, and the stage was permitted to proceed. Some curses and threats were soon hurled at the ungallant miner. He finally said, "Me and the woman will fix things up right in the morning."

Sure enough, after the sun was well up the miner reached down his boot leg and hauled out a package of $100 bank-notes, handing the lady from it $200 in good money, and remarked that he was not so mean as he seemed to be, but had thought on the spur of the moment that this was the easiest way of saving all further unnecessary trouble. He had saved just $4800 by his diplomacy.

Not all those reckless freebooters were lost to the world even after the iron rails were laid. It may be of interest to catch a glimpse of one of their later haunts and the home of a better class who had for a time been exposed to their influence. The trains at the time in question were running to Kit Carson. It seemed that the gamblers and adventurers of the Southwest had concentered at this point and made its character notorious. It was my fortune to spend a night in that settlement, while en route to Fort Lyon on the Santa Fe trail. The tavern was a big saloon and was said to be the rendezvous for many men who had served their apprenticeship on the road, and was the resort of other experts from the States.

"Can't give you a bed until after midnight," said the proprietor in reply to my request for a room.

The only comfortable waiting place was the billiard room, which afforded shelter until two o'clock in the morning, up to which time whiskey, gambling, and swearing were blended in just and equal proportions. The room having furnished nearly all the revenue to be expected for that night, I was informed that I could sleep upon a billiard table temporarily unused. It then appeared that the billiard tables regularly served this double purpose. Enveloped in a blanket I appropriated the softest spot to be found, and as one by one the abandoned tables were occupied by guests, I became reconciled to my fate.

The next night found me at Las Animas, in a so-called hotel, the partitions of which were made of canvas. Voices could easily be heard from room to room. When I was retiring, the proprietor informed me of the death of an old resident who had been in the colony more than a year, and was therefore an old settler. A little later the same now familiar voice was recognized in another room, as he declared to his wife, "I don't know what in the devil to do about that funeral. They say they are going to get a minister."

"Why, what about it, Jim," replied the woman.

"Wall, they expect me to run it, and if they have a minister I suppose they will want a Bible, and I don't know where in Hell to get one."

"You ain't going there to hunt for one, are you?" said the woman.

"I guess I could find one there as easy as I could in Las Animas," was the response.

"But say! Didn't they have one when Hat Morrow was buried?"

"I reckon they did, and I'll go right over and find out. If I'm to run the job, I'd like to do it in style."

The man was soon heard to pass out and close the door.

I did not learn the result of the landlord's quest for a Bible, but I was led to believe that in their hearts there was a latent feeling of reverence for that Book, which an emergency would awaken. The minister, however, may have brought a Bible with him.

On our second day out from Denver our coach was stopped fully half an hour, not by bandits but by a herd of buffalo uncountable in number, which, in a solid body as closely massed as a flock of sheep, crossed the road moving southward on their annual migration. From that time for the two succeeding days there was not a moment when there were not many thousands of buffalo within range of our view. The hills in every direction as far as the eye could reach were dotted with those great, dark-moving objects. It would require no marksmanship at 50 or 100 yards to send our Spencer bullets into the mass without singling out any particular animal. Three buffaloes were left wounded by shots from a passenger who fired at short range from the coach into the first herd we encountered.

The prairies of eastern Kansas, from which the buffalo had been driven, were more fertile and produced grass more luxuriantly than the ranges farther west. When we crossed those eastern plains on our return trip, they had become dry from the frosts and late drouth. As we were sitting on the outside of the coach with the driver one night, we observed an increasing glow in the southeast, which betokened an approaching prairie fire that was being driven northward before a brisk southern breeze. The leaping flames soon became visible and their rapid progress was alarming. We considered the advisability of halting and protecting ourselves for a time with a back fire, which is the common practice when travelers are threatened by such a danger. We certainly could not safely advance. The remedy was easy. Yielding the reins to another, the driver jumped to the ground and applied a lighted match to the little clumps of dry grass on each side of the road. On the leeward side the flames soon gained headway and sped off to the northward widening as they advanced. On the other side they crept slowly toward the oncoming greater conflagration which was approaching with a crackling and subdued roar and lighted up the country in every direction. Beyond us they swept across the road, but when they met the back fire, which advanced but slowly against the wind the two lines of flame melted together into one and died, leaving only the few hot, black ashes, which quickly cooled. For hours the northern sky was luminous from the reflection of the receding flames, which crossed our trail and swept onward, possibly until checked at the shore of some far away stream.