Workers - An Experiment in Reality: The West — Chapter 8 - Part II - From Denver to the Pacific

It was a very small affair, with a lean-to for a kitchen, but a dark little German woman with a soft musical voice, who opened the door, bade me a most cordial welcome; and as she placed a chair for me before the fire, she assured me, again and again, of the anxiety that she should feel if one of her boys were caught out in such a storm, and of her gratitude to anyone who might shelter him.

I began to understand that I was coming in for a good deal of vicarious attention, for she took my wet coat and boots to dry them in the kitchen and insisted upon my drinking some hot tea.

It was a very cosy nest into which I had fallen.

The ranchman himself was a mild-mannered German, with a blonde beard and dreamy eyes, and an air of abstraction, who looked up to his wife in all things, for she was vastly his superior.

Two boys were at home, magnificent young fellows of about fifteen or sixteen, handsome, clear-eyed, ruddy-faced lads, with the carriage of men who are most at ease in the saddle.

And visiting her prospective in-law relations, was the fiancée of the oldest son, who is a merchant, I think, in West Cliff.

It was worth far more than all the risks of the storm to see her.

She was a Swedish girl in the very bloom of youth, and her light hair had in it the living fire of red gold.

It was brushed straight back and done up behind her head in a great mass of interweaving coils in which the light played superbly.

Some shorter hairs had worked loose, and these fell in almost invisible curling threads of gold about her white forehead.

Her cheeks were of translucent pink, and her rich red lips were as delicately formed as in the Psyche of Praxiteles.

The child was perfectly unaware of her beauty.

In her wide, blue eyes there was not a suggestion of self-consciousness.

And the family about her seemed not to consider it either; perhaps they all regarded it, as the poor instinctively accept much in life, as belonging to the natural order and not to be counted in an individual sense.

We had a jolly time that day playing games and telling stories far into the evening.

It was perfectly clear next morning, with a warm sun fast melting the deep snow.

I could not venture on, however, for the way was too obstructed, and in another day spent in the cabin I got on quite intimate terms with the family, especially with the ranchman’s wife, who told me much of their life and many of her troubles.

They were very serious, though her life was not without its compensations.

It was pitiful to see the care-lines deepen in her sensitive face and an infinite perplexity cloud her eyes as she talked to me of her sorrows.

“My man is a good husband,” she would say, “but he’s not a good farmer.

I don’t know what’s to become of us.

He gets deeper and deeper into debt.

Sometimes he works hard and manages well and I think that we are going to get on; and then in the middle of it the prospecting fever takes him, and he leaves everything and goes off into the mountains and spends every cent that he can raise, looking for silver.

“You see a fortune-teller told him once that he’d ‘find his fortune in stone,’ and ever since then he’s been crazy to prospect and he’s squandered everything off there in the mountains.

The boys have to work too hard and they don’t get the proper schooling, and I don’t know what’s to become of us.

“But there’s my son John that keeps store in West Cliff”--and it was beautiful to see her face light up--“no woman ever had a better son than him.

He’s been like a father to the family.

I don’t know what we’d ever have done without him, for he’s been the greatest help to us in all our troubles.

” They urged me to stay longer on Friday morning, but the day was perfectly clear and patches of dry ground had begun to appear through the snow, and so I set out early, hoping to cover before night most of the distance to the entrance of Musa Pass, which leads from Green Mountain Valley over the Sangre De Cristo Range to the San Luis country.

I accomplished it comfortably, and early on the next morning made my way into the pass.

The snow lay deep about the entrance, and it deepened as I climbed the range, but a party of prospectors had just come over the trail as I started in, and it was a simple matter to walk in the path which their burros had made through the snow.

The prospectors did me another unconscious service, for when I met them two of the five men were suffering keenly from snow blindness, and, taking warning, I tore a strip from a coarse cotton handkerchief and bound it around my eyes, in a way that interfered very little with vision and yet acted as an adequate protection from the blinding glare of the sunlight on the snow.

That night I reached a Mormon’s ranch well in the San Luis Valley.

It was a matter of easy marching after that, for the snow was all gone in a day or two and I had only to walk by way of Alamosa and Monte Vista and Del Norte to the Wagon Wheel Gap region and so up to Créede.

I was much disappointed there in not finding work in the mines.

Numbers of them were in operation, and there were large gangs of men employed, but there were plenty of experienced hands about, and nothing whatever in the mines for a raw tenderfoot to do.

Still I had no difficulty, for at the very first asking I got work with a gang which was cutting a new road down Bachelor Mountain from the New York Chance Mine to Créede.

And so, while not a member of a mining crew, I was a member of one which contained many miners, and I lived in the camp on Bachelor Mountain with scores of the men from the New York Chance and the Amethyst Mines.

I fell in eventually with a group of truest Bohemians, a mine superintendent of the best type, and a magnificent chap who was an engineer and surveyor and whom I liked best of all, and a young Harvard-bred barrister who was on the high road to being the District Attorney, and a newspaper editor.

I cannot now recall how I came to be one of their number, it was done so quickly and naturally; but I was suddenly aware that I had been accepted as such, and all that belonged to my new-found friends was mine, and the engineer and barrister and I were sleeping three in a bed.

My pen rebels against the necessity which spurs it to so swift a pace over details where it longs to linger.

For those were hard but glorious days on the mountain; there were always new and strange men to be known among the crews, men whose emancipation from conventionality was complete, and whose personalities possessed a marvellous richness.

The railway and statutory laws and honest women and the ten commandments were there, so that the camp “enjoyed the blessings of civilization,” and was widely different from the camps of earlier days--much to the regret of the older men who knew the earlier days and many of the younger ones who would have liked to know them.

Already there were apparent the phases of human nature which seem by a curious contradiction to reveal themselves under the very protection of the vast improvement wrought by the reign of “law and order.

” But the freer, braver elements of human nature were present, too, and were not always beneath the surface of convention.

How it stirred one’s better blood to see those free, strong, natural men face one another in the common intercourse of life and meet the exigencies of their work!

And under what spells have I sat looking in the eye some tawny-bearded giant of a prospector as he told of thirty years or more among the mountains and in the mining camps, of hardships endured and difficulties overcome and death and danger faced, and of the rare times when he “struck it rich,” and then the lordly, vicious days when he “blew it in!

” How much may have been concocted for the ready ear of a tenderfoot I did not know; I only knew that it reeked with the red, raw blood of life, and whether true or false it thrust roots deep into grim and stanch realities.

Hamilton will answer as the name of the engineer.

It was in his office that the little coterie which I have mentioned would gather in the evenings.

There were rough chairs of most comfortable shape, and there was always a roaring fire in the stove, for the nights were bitter cold, and a number of Hamilton’s drawings in crayons and blue prints were tacked upon the walls, for besides being a skilful engineer he was a splendid draughtsman.

His surveying instruments stood together in a corner, and the ample tables were covered with unfinished drawings and with the tools of his art.

Never was more diverting talk than that which ranged around the room where we sat in easy attitudes, with feet cocked up and chairs tilted, in the soft light of Hamilton’s well-shaded lamps and in a deepening density of tobacco-smoke.

And the talk was catholic in its range, for the editor was an authority on local and state and national politics, and, as a recent convert to “free silver,” he could argue its cause with all the fervor of a novice.

The barrister was a man of liberal education who had taught the classics and loved them, and who could, with real enthusiasm, lead the talk back from all things modern to “--those old days which poets say were golden.

” And the mine superintendent, for all his shrewd and efficient practicality--for he was counted the best superintendent in the camp who, in the face of the declining price of silver and of other difficulties as great, had accomplished marvels with his mine--was profoundly interested in Biblical criticism; he could speak with the knowledge of a theologian on the authorship of the Pentateuch and the question of the inerrancy of Scripture and the authenticity and genuineness of the synoptic Gospels.

But I liked most of all to hear Hamilton as he would sit left ankle crossing his right knee, his right foot tip-toe on the floor balancing his tilted chair, and his guitar resting on his lap.

Over the strings his great strong fingers would pass, striking soft harmonies, and his handsome, manly face would respond to the free play of emotion as in his rich voice and with unconscious vividness of camp speech he would talk of life and of its revelations to him throughout his varied history.

“I have had every experience but that of death,” he said very quietly to me one day, when we had come to know each other well.

As I watched him and saw his innate, thoughtful courtesy to women, and his strong, tender-hearted love of little children, and the frankness of his life, and his useful efficiency as a man, and his devotion to the truth, and his utter hatred of all cowardice and hypocrisy, I began to understand what royal possibilities there are in the men who prove best fitted to survive in the struggle of the frontier.

It was Hamilton who introduced me to Price.

Price shall stand for the name of a prospector of a sort that is becoming rare at the West.

The son of an officer in an Irish regiment, he was brought to America in his early boyhood and was reared on the Pacific coast.

But the strictures of high civilization were too much for him, and long before he was out of his teens he was living the rough, fortuitous life of the mining camps and cattle tracts of the Southwest.

Price is about forty now, and his range of occupation includes almost everything from a “burro puncher” to a member of the Legislature of Arizona.

He seems to know, moreover, every trail in the two Territories and every soul along them, to the very Indians and “greasers” of the youngest generation, and he is just the sort who is looked upon out here as likely at any time “to strike it rich.

” So far, however, he has not struck it rich;

very much the reverse.

In the spring he punched his burros up from Phœnix to the Wagon Wheel Gap region and prospected there all summer, but with no luck.

When Hamilton introduced me to him, his burros were in hock and so were his blankets and his very cooking utensils and even his “gun,” and he was longing for the means to redeem them that he might get out of the bitter cold of the mountains and down into the balmy Indian summer of the Salt River Valley which was “God’s country” to him.

No more ideal opportunity could have presented itself to me.

It was late in November and the problem of going alone westward through the thinly settled country was a difficult one, and here, as by miracle, was its perfect solution.

Moreover, as it proved, Price was a good fellow with a truly Irish sense of humor and a perfect adaptability born of long habit.

And withal he was patient with my inexperience.

He taught me the “diamond hitch,” and how to make a fire from next to nothing, and tea out of water that was thick and green on the surface, how to cook “spuds” and fry bacon and make gravy and bake bread in a saucepan.

He tried to make a burro puncher of me, but his patience gave out there, and he declared that I’d “never be worth my salt at that until I learned to swear.

” Then suiting the action to the word he would take a hand himself at this point, and fairly dancing in a frenzy of rage, would rip the air with uncouth, fluent curses, and the stubborn beasts would meekly take the ford or cease their aimless wandering and quicken their pace along the trail.

I had been working for two dollars and a half a day, the highest wages I had ever received; I soon got Price’s animals and gun and camping outfit from the pawn-shop, and, on the morning of November 20th, we set out together to cross some five or six hundred miles of the frontier from Créede to central Arizona.

Ours was rather a typical prospecting outfit, I thought, for Price had an old, gaunt Indian pony which he rode, and our blankets and cooking utensils and provisions were made fast to packing saddles on the backs of two burros, one of which was called California and the other, Beecher.

I was free to ride, when I chose, another burro, an uncommonly big one, which Price called Sacramento; but I generally preferred to walk, for the pace was slow, and, besides the three which I have named, there were two little burros, California’s foals, and punching five, I soon found, was best accomplished on foot.

We camped that night far up among the head waters of the Rio Grande, and next day with much difficulty we began the toilsome journey of the Winnemonche Pass.

It was hard work crossing the “divide.

” For many miles the trail lay through nearly three feet of snow.

There was no driving the animals ahead; we were obliged to take turns in breaking a way ourselves, and then leading the animals through.

Very soon we were drenched with sweat and with the snow that melted in the heat of our bodies, and all the while we were assailed by mountain winds which seemed to cut to the marrow in one’s bones.

But we always found a sheltered place in which to camp, where wood and water were plenty, and where after a good supper, we slept gloriously, huddled close together on our bed of canvas and gunny sacks, our blankets drawn up snugly over our heads.

With what a sense of keen relief did we begin the descent and pass swiftly into warmer regions, where the snow became thinner and gradually disappeared, and the sun warmed us with mild rays, and we came upon a settler’s cabin here and there and had speech once more with our fellow-men!

Price had promised me Indian summer when once we should get so far on our way as Durango, and most amply was his promise fulfilled, for we passed through the town on a day when the sun shone from clear, cloudless blue, and the horizon was a _sierra_ in sharp lines, and the twigs of distant trees stood clean-cut against the sky, and the withering, dusty earth reflected the glory of the sun, and the cool, buoyant air seemed almost vocal of a solemn ecstasy.

We camped that night in a wilderness region to the south of Durango, where we could see the smoke rising from encampments of Ute Indians, many of whom we met on the next day’s march with droves of fine Indian ponies, which they were raising for the market.

Our course was southward now across the San Juan River and through a section of the Navajo reservation in northern New Mexico.

The trail led us then through a dreary desert, where at times it was with great difficulty that we got fodder for our burros and wood enough to cook our meals and water enough to drink.

After days of such marching and camping, there was immense delight in coming eventually to some cedar grove, where living water flowed and grass grew thick and we could build a huge campfire at night of well-seasoned cedar boughs.

The only sign of habitation that we saw for days together was an occasional trader’s post, about which we usually found a considerable company of Navajos.

Price could speak their language, and the young braves occasionally passed us on the march.

Now and then one joined us in camp, shared a meal with us, and, after a long talk with Price, rolled himself in his blanket and slept beside our fire.

[Illustration: PRICE COULD SPEAK THEIR LANGUAGE, AND NOW AND THEN ONE JOINED US IN CAMP.

] At last we came out upon the Santa Fé Railway, not far from Fort Wingate, and followed the line to Gallup, where, in a grove on the hill above the village, we went into camp for the night.

As a matter of fact we remained there nearly a week.

Quite buried under a soft, wet snow we awoke on the first morning to find ourselves lying in melting slush, and the trail so obstructed that we could not get on.

Then a bitter cold set in, and, in a region where I imagined the whole winter like a balmy spring, the thermometer sank to ten and twelve degrees below zero every night until we had nearly perished from the cold.

But the wave passed over us at last, and on December 10th we set out again, really none the worse for the touch of Arctic weather.

Following the line of the Santa Fé Railway we crossed into Arizona, and, from a point due north of it, we cut down to the Petrified Forest and on down to a Mormon settlement called Woodruff on the Little Colorado River.

It was two days’ march thence to another Mormon settlement, Heber by name, among the Mogollon Mountains.

All this time Indian summer had utterly failed us, and had been succeeded by a season of lowering days wherein light snow-falls were frequent.

Price hated snow as he hated nothing else in nature.

It got upon his nerves and drove him to a species of madness.

Frequently in the course of the journey from Gallup to Heber snow fell at night.

Price was usually the first to stir in the morning.

We had knowledge of a snow-fall in the added weight upon us when we woke, and it was something memorable to see Price throw back the blankets and the heavy tarpaulin which were drawn over our heads, and lift himself on his elbow in the gray dawn, and gaze about with fierce anger in his black eyes upon a pure, white, flawless world, with soft snow clinging to every twig in the still morning air, and delicate crystal prisms beginning to form in the warmth of the coming sun, and hear him growl, in deep disgust, “This is hell!

” But Heber marked nearly the last stage of that phase of our journey.

We spent Sunday, the 18th December, there with an old Mormon elder and his son; worked for them on Monday for our keep and then renewed the march on Tuesday morning.

It was a long, hard day’s pull up the northern side of the mountain to the “rimrock,” in deep snow through a vast primeval forest of spruce and pine.

Then a wonderful thing happened, for we made a sharp descent on the south side and, in the space of a little more than a day, reached a country where there was no snow, and the sun shone warm, and the cotton-wood was in full bloom along the water-courses, and the cedar and live-oak stood green against the winter brown of the grass-grown hills.

We had Indian summer once more, and the softest, balmiest Indian summer has accompanied us thence all the way to Phœnix.

We had hardships to endure, for the way was long and our provisions sometimes ran out.

Once we lost our way for a time in a maze of “box cañons” and had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours, until, late on Christmas afternoon, we came out upon the ranch of a Virginian settler, whom Price knew well, and whose wife gave us a royal dinner of “hog and hominy,” which I have heard lightly spoken of as a dish, but which I shall always remember as a most satisfying delicacy.

On we went then over the mountains to the Tonto Basin and through the Reno Pass to the Verde River.

We were encamped there over Sunday on January 1st in the former reservation of the now deserted Fort McDowell, and early on Monday morning we started for Phœnix.

By a forced march of thirty miles we entered the city at ten o’clock the same evening and had a huge supper in a Chinese restaurant; then, while our animals were eating their fill of fresh alfalfa in a corral attached to a livery-stable, we slept deeply near by on a heap of hay, glad to have reached the end of our six weeks’ march across the narrowing frontier.

* * * * * SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.

, February 1, 1893. Not the most interesting nor profitable and certainly not the most adventurous of the many miles which I have walked in a slow progress across the continent has been this last stage of the journey up through California.

And yet the remembrance of it will always have a place apart.

Work was plenty, but I made no long stops, pressed on at the rate of thirty miles a day, impelled by the delight of walking in so glorious an air through the marvellous beauty of this Pacific slope.

Fresh from the dusty plains I was soon in the midst of the orange-groves heavily laden with ripe fruit all about Colton and Riverside, where the hills were terraced as in the Riviera and the sky was the deep, unfathomable blue of Italy.

It was January, and the first, fresh green of the new year was upon the fields and had touched with infinite delicacy the rugged sides of the mountains whose summits flashed white in places from melting snow.

The early mornings were frosty, but mid-day warmed to a gentle glow, and the cool of the evening came with the declining sun.

Many a time, on the plains or in the mountains, in the presence of some Mexican Pueblo of adobe huts in a strangely foreign setting of cedar-trees, with threads of water apparently flowing up hill along the irrigation ditches to scant fields reclaimed from the desert, it had been difficult to realize that one was still in America.

Here again was strongest suggestion of the foreign, in the houses which survive from the Spanish period, and especially the old Mission churches, where dwells the dignity of age and one can pass completely into the very atmosphere of Spain.

It was on the third day’s march, I think, from Los Angeles that I found myself nearing San Buenaventura.

It was late in the afternoon, and the road ahead was an easy upward slope for several miles.

Just at sunset I reached the summit.

The town of San Buenaventura lay below me, with its long main street curving through rows of houses of widely various kind, and the Mission church standing on an elevation to the left, with its stucco walls bathed in sunset light, making a strange contrast with the modern town.

And beyond, with the sun’s red disc a half circle on the horizon line, lay the peaceful sea, with a tongue of living flame across it turning to black coals the islands in its wake.

In a moment the sun was gone, the shadow of the evening was upon the ocean, and over the town had fallen the transfiguration light which rests after sunset in spring-time upon Naples.

Three thousand miles away, and a year and a half in point of time for me, was Long Island Sound.

I recalled the last glimpse of it as I looked back from Greenfield Hill in the early morning of my start, and saw it radiant in the sunshine of a midsummer day.

And here again, after many months and many leagues of land journey, was the sea.

Θἁλαττα!

Θἁλαττα!

I called aloud, for there was no one near enough to hear.

It was a rare moment, worth living for, that first unexpected glimpse of the Pacific.

But strangely enough the feeling which it bred was no harbinger of an eager willingness to end my long experiment.

Many a time when work was hard, and far more ardently when there was no work and the physical conditions of life seemed well-nigh unendurable, had I looked with longing to a return to normal living.

And yet, as I neared my journey’s end I found possessing me a strange indifference to the idea of return.

I do not attempt to analyze the feeling, I simply note it as a fact; but in some degree I recognize in it a vague unwillingness to have done with a phase of experience which for me has opened avenues of useful knowledge.

Among them all there rises clearest at this moment the way of added knowledge of my country.

I may have travelled it to little purpose, but I am conscious at least of a new-born sense of things which comes of actual contact with the soil and with the primal struggle for existence among men.

One stands awestruck before the vastness of our great domain and its quick redemption from the wilderness.

But most of all it is contact with the people which breeds in one the strongest patriotic feeling.

Local conditions and the presence of large numbers of yet unassimilated foreign elements and rapid changes in economic relations and native weaknesses and vagaries are responsible for awful sores upon the body politic, while the power of aggregated wealth grows apace, and fierce antagonisms and sectional differences arise.

Yet beneath the troubled surface of events one comes to know of the great body of a nation whose unity has been purchased and made sure by such a cost of blood and treasure as was never poured out upon the altar of a nation’s life before, and one sees a people intelligent, resourceful, and hugely vital, having much to learn and surely learning much, assimilating foreign elements with miraculous swiftness and growing stronger thereby, living laborious days wherein the rewards are to thrift and energy and enterprising skill, knowing no defeat and unacquainted with the sense of fear, and awakening year by year to a fuller consciousness of national life and of the glorious mission of high destiny.

And with increasing knowledge the love of country grows until all thought of worth in her is merged and lost in reverence, and love of her becomes a summons to live worthy of the name and calling of an American.

THE END.

_Transcriber’s Notes_ A number of typographical errors have been corrected silently.

Archaic spellings have been retained.

Cover image is in the public domain.

Variations in spelling of hyphenated words have been normalized to a single form when there either was a preponderance of one version or the first version to appear was used.

The snip of Greek "Θἁλαττα!"

translates to "The Sea!"

in English.

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