Lippincotts Magazine of Popular Literature and Science | Page 7

certain it is that he is
credited with causing the death of Juan Chiquito. An Indian called
"Chickey" actually did the deed, lying in ambush for his victim.
Perhaps few were sorry at the Mexican's sudden taking off, and in a
country where Judge Lynch alone executes the laws the whole
transaction was no doubt regarded as eminently proper.
Among those who came to Pueblo with the influx of 1858 were two
brothers from Ohio, Josiah and Stephen Smith. Stalwart young men
were these, of a different type from the Kansans and Missourians, yet
not of the sort to be imposed upon. They were crack rifle-shots, and
even then held decided opinions on the Indian question--opinions
which subsequent experiences have served to emphasize, but not
change. And what with constant troubles with the savages, as well as
with the scarcely less intractable Kansans, their first years in the Far
West could not be called altogether pleasant. Many a time have their
lives been in danger from bands of outlaw immigrants, who,
dissatisfied with not finding gold lying about as they had expected,
sought to revenge themselves upon the settlers, whom they considered
in fault for having led the way. Their personal bravery went far toward
bringing to a close this reign of terror and transforming the lawless
settlement into a permanent and prosperous town. Still in the prime of
life, they look back with pleasure over their most hazardous
experiences, for time has softened the dangers and cast over them the
glow of romance. And while none are more familiar with everything
concerning the early history of Pueblo, it is equally true that none are

more ready to gratify an appreciative listener, and the writer is indebted
for much that follows to their inimitable recitals.
About the first work of any note undertaken in connection with the new
town was the building of a bridge across the Arkansas. This was
accomplished in 1860, when a charter was obtained from Kansas and a
structure of six spans thrown across the river. It was a toll-bridge, and
every crossing team put at least one dollar into the pockets of its
owners. But trouble soon overtook the management. While one of the
proprietors was in New Mexico, building a mill for Maxwell upon his
famous estate, the other was so unfortunate as to kill three men, and
was obliged, as Steph Smith felicitously expressed it, to "skip out."
Thus the bridge passed into other hands, where it remained till it was
partly washed away in 1863. The following little matter of history
connected with its palmy days will be best given in the narrator's own
words: "We had a blacksmith who misused his wife. The citizens took
him down to the bridge, tied a rope around his body and threw him into
the river. They kept up their lick until they nearly drowned the poor
cuss, then whispered to him to be good to his wife or his time would be
short. He took the hint, used his wife well, and everything was lovely.
That was the first cold-water cure in Pueblo, and I ain't sure but the
last." This incident serves to illustrate the inherent character of
American gallantry, for, however wild or in most respects uncivilized
men may appear to become under the influence of frontier life,
instances are rare in which women are not treated with all the honor
and respect due them. Indeed, I have sometimes thought that the
general sentiment concerning woman is more refined and reverential
among the bronzed pioneers at the outposts than under the influence of
a higher civilization.
The Arkansas, ever changing its winding course after the manner of
prairie-rivers, has long since shifted its bed some distance to the south,
leaving only a portion of the old bridge to span what in high water
becomes an arm of the river, but which ordinarily serves to convey the
water from a neighboring mill. We lean upon its guard-rail while fancy
is busy with the past. We picture the prairie-schooners winding around
the mesas and through the gap: soon they have come to the grove by
the river-bank; the horses are picketed and the camp-fire is blazing;
brown children play in the sand while their parents lie stretched out in

the shadow of the wagons. They left civilization on the banks of the
Missouri more than a month ago, and their eyes are still turned toward
those grand old mountain-ranges in the west over which the declining
sun is now pouring its transfiguring sheen. The brightness dazzles the
eyes, and the Mexican who rides by on a scarce manageable broncho
with nose high in air might be old Juan Chiquito bent upon some
murderous errand. But no: the rider has stopped the animal, and is
soliciting the