Over the Rocky Mountains to Alaska | Page 4

wind is in it, and a peculiarly free, rhythmical swing, suggestive of the
swirling lariat. Colorado is not, as some conjecture, a corruption or
revised edition of Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, who was sent out
by the Spanish Viceroy of Mexico in 1540 in search of the seven cities
of Cibola: it is from the verb colorar--colored red, or ruddy--a name
frequently given to rivers, rocks, and ravines in the lower country. Nor
do we care to go back as far as the sixteenth century for the beginning
of an enterprise that is still very young and possibly a little fresh. In
1803 the United States purchased from France a vast territory for
$15,000,000; it was then known as Louisiana, and that purchase
included the district long referred to as the Great American Desert.
In 1806 Zebulon Pike camped where Pueblo now stands. He was a
pedestrian. One day he started to climb a peak whose shining summit
had dazzled him from the first; it seemed to soar into the very heavens,
yet lie within easy reach just over the neighboring hill. He started
bright and early, with enthusiasm in his heart, determination in his eye,
and a cold bite in his pocket. He went from hill to hill, from mountain
to mountain; always ascending, satisfied that each height was the last,
and that he had but to step from the next pinnacle to the throne of his
ambition. Alas! the peak was as far away as ever, even at the close of

the second day; so famished, foot-frozen and well-nigh in extremity, he
dragged his weary bones back to camp, defeated. That peak bears his
name to this day, and probably he deserves the honor quite as much as
any human molecule who godfathers a mountain.
James Pursley, of Bardstown, Ky., was a greater explorer than Pike; but
Pursley gives Pike much credit which Pike blushingly declines. The
two men were exceptionally well-bred pioneers. In 1820 Colonel Long
named a peak in memory of his explorations. The peak survives. Then
came General Fremont, in 1843, and the discovery of gold near Denver
fifteen years later; but I believe Green Russell, a Georgian, found color
earlier on Pike's Peak.
Colorado was the outgrowth of the great financial crisis of 1857. That
panic sent a wave westward,--a wave that overflowed all the wild lands
of the wilderness, and, in most cases, to the advantage of both wave
and wilderness. Of course there was a gradual settling up or settling
down from that period. Many people who didn't exactly come to stay
got stuck fast, or found it difficult to leave; and now they are glad of it.
Denver was the result.
Denver! It seems as if that should be the name of some out-of-door
production; of something brawny and breezy and bounding; something
strong with the strength of youth; overflowing with vitality; ambitions,
unconquerable, irrepressible--and such is Denver, the queen city of the
plains. Denver is a marvel, and she knows it. She is by no means the
marvel that San Francisco was at the same interesting age; but, then,
Denver doesn't know it; or, if she knows it, she doesn't care to mention
it or to hear it mentioned.
True it is that the Argonauts of the Pacific were blown in out of the
blue sea--most of them. They had had a taste of the tropics on the way;
paroquets and Panama fevers were their portion; or, after a long pull
and a strong pull around the Horn, they were comparatively fresh and
eager for the fray when they touched dry land once more. There was
much close company between decks to cheer the lonely hours; a very
bracing air and a very broad, bright land to give them welcome when
the voyage was ended--in brief, they had their advantages.

The pioneers of Denver town were the captains or mates of prairie
schooners, stranded in the midst of a sealike desert. It was a voyage of
from six to eight weeks west of the Mississippi in those days. The only
stations--and miserably primitive ones at that--lay along Ben Holliday's
overland stage route. They were far between. Indians waylaid the
voyagers; fires, famine and fatigue helped to strew the trail with the
graves of men and the carcasses of animals. Hard lines were these; but
not so hard as the lines of those who pushed farther into the wilderness,
nor stayed their adventurous feet till they were planted on the rich soil
of the Pacific slope.
Pioneer life knows little variety. The menu of the Colorado banquet
July 4, 1859, will revive in the minds of many an old Californian the
fast-fading memories of the past; but I fear, twill be a long time before
such a menu as the following will gladden