My primary concern was to look for a job, and I found
one—cutting logs for Denver's first frame houses. Up to that time, the
buildings were adobe, except for a few log cabins. This work took me twenty
miles into the mountains, but compared with the long journey just completed,
it seemed a short distance.
Curly Gray, an Auburn boy, and I then bought an interest
in a placer mine, four miles west of Denver on Bear Creek. By tying willows
in bunches to make a dam, we raised the water and ran it in ditches down to
our claims. Alongside our camp was that of Jim Beckworth, one-time partner
of Kit Carson. He entertained us by the hour with tales of his adventures.
A company of loggers, further up the mountain, soon ended our prospecting
here by destroying our dam with their log rafts. We were learning by experience
that "gold has to be dug from ground before it can be put into your pockets."
We decided to strike out for Central City, forty miles
distant. Our combined resources when we reached there were ten cents, which
we spent for liver at a butcher shop. After making a fire and roasting the
meat for our supper, we laid out our bed under a pine tree. This section was
the natural home of the antelope. Since we often saw hundreds at a time, we
knew we would not starve.
Another prospector now joined us and each of us took a one-third interest
in good placer mines at the junction of two gulches above the city. We were
doing quite well when, early in 1861, reports reached us of valuable gold
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discoveries in the San Juan Mountains. Many persons,
however, in attempting to climb the steep and rugged passes, had suffered
severely from the cold, and some lost their lives in the deep mountain snows.
In spite of these reported hazards, I could not resist
the urge to join four other Auburn boys in a caravan of 150 persons on what
was later known as "the ill-fated San Juan expedition." To my partners
at Central City I gave the "power of attorney" to handle the mines
as they saw fit during my absence.
Starting early in the summer to avoid the perils of cold
weather, our party followed Cherry Creek south of Denver until we reached
Pueblo, a town of only a few Mexican huts. Here the Mexicans had thrown a
wooden bridge across the Arkansas River and charged a toll of $2.50 for each
vehicle.
We had several ox-drawn wagons, one owned by Mr. Smith
and his brother Sol. They were accompanied by Mrs. Smith and their eighteen-year-old
daughter Elizabeth. Our mounted leaders included two of Sheriff Middaugh's
boys from Denver. One member of the party was a vigorous, middle-aged man
named Pete, who claimed to have discovered a rich vein in Poor Man's Gulch
on the west side of the Sangre de Cristo range.
For some reason our leaders became suspicious of him and
decided to put him under guard. Al Davis and I were appointed to take charge
of him at night. We made our beds on the ground, placing Pete between us.
When we awoke one morning, we were chagrined to find that he had slipped through
our hands.
Three horsemen struck out at once, and after two days of searching returned
with the culprit, who had been
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hiding at a ranch over at the Greenhorn. Al and I felt
humiliated and expected some drastic punishment. We anxiously awaited the
verdict, while the others held a council. Finally, to our relief, the leaders
simply led the turncoat over to us, saying curtly, "Don't let this fellow
get away again."
From that time on, Pete did not make a move at night without
our knowing it. After his attempted escape, the men had lost all faith in
his stories, but, true to the Western style, he was given every opportunity
to make good. We crossed the Sangre de Cristo range with its sharp mountain
passes and camped at the mouth of Poor Man's Gulch. Day after day parties
went out with him to locate his diggings, till at length he admitted he could
not find the spot.
What advantage he hoped to gain by leading our large caravan on this wild-goose
chase is still a mystery. He surely deserved punishment, and he received it
in the Western frontier manner—thirty-nine lashes applied to his bare
back. That was the last we saw of Pete, but we learned too late that he had
played a similar trick on California prospectors during the gold rush of '49.
Thoroughly discouraged at the turn things had taken, most
of our caravan immediately took the back track for Denver. Only the Smith
family and we five boys from Auburn remained. At the mouth of Gray Back Gulch
we found several run-down cabins made of pine logs. A few of the roofs had
enough boards to keep the rain out. Wedged between the logs, for some reason,
were scores of grizzly bears' feet with long claws. We went into the woods
after game to replenish our diminishing food
57
supply, and every few days one of us walked over to Fort
Garland to draw all the government rations possible.
Late one afternoon a ruddy-faced well-knit frontiersman
in slouch hat and buckskin burst into camp to warn us of impending danger.
It was none other than Kit Carson.
"The Utes are on the warpath," he said. "Your
camp is on their main trail, and the sooner you move, the better!"
We also learned that the Mexican bandit, Joaquin, and
his men infested this region. Any word of caution from Fremont's intrepid
scout was not to be passed over lightly. Kit Carson's prowess and resourcefulness
had stood him in good stead. His hairbreadth escapes were legendary, and through
his knowledge of Indian traits and language, he had exercised a restraining
influence over many warlike tribes.
After he left us we discussed our predicament and tried to decide what course
to pursue. There was little sleep for any of us that night. In the darkness
I seemed to hear the bells of Indian ponies and the soft tread of moccasined
feet.
By morning the Smith family had resolved to start back
towards Denver. We bade them goodbye with deep concern for their safety. The
daughter Elizabeth was a large comely girl about my age. Since her shoes had
worn thin from mountain climbing, I let her take my extra pair of slippers.
We boys lost no time in moving camp, hastily throwing blankets, cooking utensils,
picks, shovels, pans, and other equipment into the wagon. Half a mile up the
gulch we found a grassy field where we pastured our oxen. We
58
pitched our tent in a narrow valley, facing a well-worn path made by deer.
Icy waters from mountain snows tumbled over nearby rocks, forming a sparkling
rivulet.
By the time we got settled, it was almost sundown. The other boys started
a game of cards while I took a nap. After I awoke, my first impulse was to
look after the cattle, and I started up the dusty trail, stopping first to
bathe my face in the cold stream. When I had gone but a few rods, I noticed
the tracks of cattle hoofs coming down the path. A closer look in the gathering
dusk indicated moccasined footprints adjacent.
I yelled, "Indians!"
The other boys came on the run. Investigation proved that the cattle were
indeed gone. We could hardly believe that they had passed within a few hundred
feet of the open tent without our knowledge. Evening shadows now engulfed
the valley, and we knew further search would be useless.
Here we were, stranded, out of food, cattle gone, and surrounded by hostile
Indians. What could we do? We spent most of the night talking over our situation.
The cattle had evidently been taken east on the mountain pass followed by
the Smith family. We agreed that three of us would attempt to track them down
at daybreak.
George Ramsey, Frank Day, and I started along the wagon
road, leaving Al Davis and Harlow Kline to guard the camp. When we had gone
about three miles we saw, lying in the dust, a slipper—my slipper! It
was one of the pair given to Elizabeth Smith the day before. Where was its
mate, and how did it get there? Had misfortune overtaken the Smiths already?
We were determined to find out, if possible.
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Leaving the wagon road, we crossed the gulch and climbed to a narrow foot
trail sometimes used by infantry soldiers in guarding government trains. From
this height we soon had an unobstructed view of the valley below, and what
did we see, standing all alone, but a white ox with yellow spots! It belonged
to the Smiths!
Soon eight or ten men, wrapped in blankets, rode in single file from the south
side of the gulch to where the lone ox stood. We had seen enough to make us
want to return to the home side of the gulch ourselves, and this we did as
quickly as possible.
Hidden by quaking aspen trees, we could neither see nor be seen; so we waited
here until dark to start for camp, some six or eight miles to the northwest.
Suddenly a blood-curdling yell arose from the valley immediately below us,
occasioned, no doubt, by the discovery of our footprints crossing the wagon
road.
We were now afraid to take the trail back to camp, but, under cover of darkness,
cut through a long stretch of pine forest where hundreds of trees had been
felled, spreading over a heavy undergrowth of quaking aspens. There was always
the danger that mountain lions or bears might be lurking near. Exhausted from
our long hike, we finally reached camp.
A party of prospectors, on the point of starvation, had
found the place during the day, and when they heard our story, offered to
help us by giving us guns, but they were not willing to risk their lives in
any further search.
The next morning a government wagon train passed up the
road toward Fort Garland. This gave us courage to continue our efforts. Casting
all care to the winds, we retraced our steps along the road followed the day
before.
60
A two-mile walk brought us suddenly in sight of a circle of wagons corralled
in the usual Western way. Among the herd of grazing cattle we recognized our
two steers, as well as the Smiths' piebald ox.
We three boys entered the camp boldly and found ourselves
facing the most villainous group of men I have ever seen. All but the captain
bore marks of fighting, and all carried knives, though I saw only a couple
of guns. They were Mexicans who had evidently been to Leavenworth with a load
of hides and wool, and were returning to Mexico with the goods for which they
had bartered their cargo.
Upon our arrival, they immediately drove the oxen into the wagon corral. We
tried to make them understand that two of the steers were ours.
"No savvy," was the reply.
I felt certain the leader did understand, for by words and signs he insisted
they had bought the cattle.
We argued back and forth to no purpose.
Ramsey suddenly decided to go into action. Drawing
