The Pike's Peak Rush Part 17

"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. If we don't like Denver we can cross to Auraria, but blamed if I can see much difference between 'em."

And that was true. On the flat ground along the shallow Cherry Creek lay sprawled an ugly collection of log huts and dingy tents and Indian tepees of buffalo hides, with people moving busily among them, and a host of emigrant wagons and animals and camps on the outskirts. All the flat on both sides of the creek was dingy and dusty, with the brush crushed down or gleaned clean for forage and fuel.

East stretched the wide plains; west was the cottonwood timber marking the Platte River, and beyond the river, some distance, were bare hills, grayish and reddish, and behind them the real mountains, rising rocky and high until their snow crests gleamed against the sky.

Distant, a line of gold-seekers with wagons and with packs seemed to be traveling into the mountains; and down along the Platte were entering Denver, 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 any city. The whole thing isn't as big as Manhattan, even."

"And not half as good-looking," added Harry.

But there was not much s.p.a.ce for halting to criticize. The procession was pressing on, jostling, crowding--spreading out, some of it to find camping spots at once, some to drive farther on. With the cart creaking, and Duke limping badly, Jenny stumbling and grunting, and Shep, dusty and burry, pacing soberly at the rear, the Pike's Peak Limited entered Denver City.

"Hope we see Sol," ventured Harry, as they threaded their way among the first tents, and several roofless cabins, located out where signs stuck in the bare ground proclaimed: "Denver City Town Co. Fine building lots for 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, were sitting, gazing abroad, but none of these was Sol.

Further along, the road took on the semblance of a street--thronged with emigrants; booted, whiskered men in their flannel shirts, and wearing revolvers; Indians, Mexicans, oxen, and dogs.

"I don't see Sol, though," commented Terry, searching about among those faces, 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 of any of 'em is Russell."

The pa.s.sage of the half-buffalo and the yellow mule hitched tandem attracted considerable attention, and a volley of bantering remarks. But a chorus of whoops and a general rush made Harry and Terry glance behind.

"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 a long one-story canvas-roofed log building which announced: "Denver House." This was the hotel.

The stage jingled up; and while the pa.s.sengers piled out was surrounded by a jostling crowd of whiskered, red-shirted and blue-shirted and buckskin-shirted (as well as buckskin-patched) residents.

As it rolled away again, to put up for the night, Terry heard himself and Harry hailed by a familiar voice, at last.

"Well, I declare! Got through, did you--buffalo and mule and dog and all! What kind of a trip did you have?"

CHAPTER IX

NOW WHERE IS THE "ELEPHANT"?

It was Journalist Villard, tanned and whiskered, and already booted and shirted and armed like the rest of the inhabitants. He shook hands vigorously with them.

"Pretty fair," replied Harry. "We've just got in. You seem to be the only person we know here."

"I won't be that only person long," laughed Mr. Villard. "The ends of the world are gathering here at the rate of a thousand a day. Why, by that very stage arrived a banker I used to know well in Cincinnati, and another friend at whose house in New York I've often eaten dinner. But the reason I met the stage was that I rather expected to find in it Horace Greeley and A. D. Richardson. They're on the way."

"Not Horace Greeley of the New York _Tribune_?" queried Harry, as if astonished.

"Yes; that's the Greeley. Mr. Richardson represents the Boston _Journal_ and some other Eastern papers. All we newspaper fellows will write the truth about the gold fields."

"How near is the gold?" eagerly asked Terry. "Can you show us where to dig? Have you dug?"

"Not very much. Not for a dollar and a half a day--and that's the most anybody is getting hereabouts. The whole creek bed is being turned upside down. But you see that line of pilgrims trailing out into the mountains, west across the Platte?"

"Yes."

"That's a rush to some new diggin's. They're following a new strike.

It's reported on good authority that a Georgian named John Gregory has found the mother vein, as they call it, about forty miles out. It's a pound-a-day strike, according to the say, and the gold down below has been washed from that vein. The people are flocking in by the five hundred at a time. I haven't been up there myself yet, but I hope the news is true. Another month and we'd have had a riot in these Cherry Creek diggin's. As it is, about half the in-comers have pulled out for California, or home--and there's been talk of hanging D. C. Oakes, who issued a 'Pike's Peak Guide' last winter, and Editor Byers, of the _News_."

"Are those new diggin's on the Platte?" asked Harry, keenly.

"No. There're up Clear Creek, and nowhere near the Platte."

"Oh, jiminy!" sighed Terry. "Aren't there mines closer than that? My father was out here last summer and found one just a few miles away, up the Platte River."

"A Fifty-eighter, is he? Is he here now, and where's his mine?"

"No, sir; he came home sick, at Christmas; and he doesn't remember. But he had some dust."

"Those early claims didn't amount to much, as I understand," stated Mr.

Villard. "That's what has fooled the people."

"Are any of the Russell brothers hereabouts?" asked Harry.

"The original boomers? Yes, they're all here now. Dr. Levi Russell has spent the winter here; but Green Russell and J. Oliver have just got in from Georgia with another party of some one hundred and fifty. You'll find them over at Auraria, though. You know, Green Russell located Auraria and named it for his home town in Georgia. The Aurarians and Denverites don't mix much, except when the stage comes. The Russells will likely be at the Eldorado Hotel this evening."

"And where's Archie Smith? Did you bring him through all right?"

"Yes. We landed him here. But I think he's joined the rush into the mountains. What are you boys intending to do now? Camp and refit, I suppose, before you look for your mine. Which are you going to be--Denverites or Aurarians?"

"Both," laughed Harry. "But Auraria's flying the United States flag, I see."

"That's over their hotel, the Eldorado. Mrs. Murat made it. Her husband claims to be an Italian count. He does barbering, and she takes in washing--and together, at the prices they charge, they're getting rich a great deal faster than most of these gold-seekers. Auraria's proud of that flag, because it's the only one in the state. Denver pretends to poke fun at it, and says it's a laundry sign, manufactured from old red and blue shirts and Mrs. Murat's white petticoat."

"What state?" demanded Harry.

"The new State of Jefferson--the future new state. Things move fast out here. A convention was held last month by the miners, to organize for another convention on June 8 when a state const.i.tution will be adopted and sent to Congress. Some people wanted the state named Pike's Peak.

You'll see the convention call in the _Rocky Mountain News_. Ah----!"

and Mr. Villard gazed aside. "There's a man I ought to talk with.