THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

Chapter XXIV (Invasion Of The Railroad)

The Tourist Who To-Day, In a Palace Car, Surrounded by All The

Conveniences Of Our American Railway Service, Commences His Tour Of

The Prairies At The Missouri River, Enters Classic Ground The Moment

The Train Leaves The Muddy Flood Of That Stream On Its Swift Flight

Toward The Golden Shores Of The Pacific.

 

 

 

He Finds A Large City At The Very Portals Of The Once Far West,

With All The Bustle And Energy Which Is So Characteristic Of American

Enterprise.

 

 

 

Gradually, As He Is Whirled along The Iron Trail, The Woods Lessen;

He Catches Views Of Beautiful Intervales; A Bright Little Stream

Flashes And Foams In the Sunlight As The Trees Grow Fewer, And Soon

He Emerges On The Broad Sea Of Prairie, Shut In only By The Great

Circle Of The Heavens.

 

 

 

Dotting This Motionless Ocean Everywhere, Like Whitened sails, Are

Quiet Homes, Real Argosies Ventured by The Sturdy And Industrious

People Who Have Fought Their Way Through Almost Insurmountable

Difficulties To The Tranquillity Which Now Surrounds Them.

 

 

 

A Few Miles West Of Topeka, The Capital Of Kansas, When The Train

Reaches The Little Hamlet Of Wakarusa, The Track Of The Railroad

Commences To Follow The Route Of The Old Santa Fe Trail.  At That

Point, Too, The Oregon Trail Branches Off For The Heavily Timbered

Regions Of The Columbia.  Now Begins The Classic Ground Of The Once

Famous Highway To New Mexico; Nearly Every Stream, Hill, And Wooded

Dell Has Its Story Of Adventure In those Days When The Railroad Was

Regarded as An Impossibility, And The Region Beyond The Missouri As

A Veritable Desert.

 

 

 

After Some Hours' Rapid Travelling, If Our Tourist Happens To Be A

Passenger On The "California Limited," The Swift Train That Annihilates

Distance, He Will Pass By Towns, Hamlets, And Immense Cattle Ranches,

Stopping Only At County-Seats, And Enter The Justly Famous Arkansas

Valley At The City Of Hutchinson.  The Old Trail Now Passes A Few

Miles North Of This Busy Place, Which Is Noted for Its Extensive

Salt Works, Nor Does The Railroad Again Meet With It Until The Site

Of Old Fort Zarah Is Reached, Forty-Seven Miles West Of Hutchinson,

Though It Runs Nearly Parallel To The Once Great Highway At Varying

Distances For The Whole Detour.

 

 

 

The Ruins Of The Once Important Military Post May Be Seen From The

Car-Windows On The Right, As The Train Crosses The Iron Bridge

Spanning The Walnut, And Here The Old Trail Exactly Coincides With

The Railroad, The Track Of The Latter Running Immediately On The

Old Highway.

 

 

 

Three Miles Westward From The Classic Little Walnut The Old Trail Ran

Through What Is Now The Court House Square Of The Town Of Great Bend;

It May Be Seen From The Station, And On That Very Spot Occurred the

Terrible Fight Of Captains Booth And Hallowell In 1864.

 

 

 

Thirteen Miles Further Mountainward, On The Right Of The Railroad,

Not Far From The Track, Stands All That Remains Of The Once Dreaded

Pawnee Rock.  It Lies Just Beyond The Limits Of The Little Hamlet

Bearing Its Name.  It Would Not Be Recognized by Any Of The Old

Plainsmen Were They To Come Out Of Their Isolated graves; For It Is

Only A Disintegrated, Low Mass Of Sandstone Now, Utilized for The Base

Purposes Of A Corral, In which The Village Herd Of Milch Cows Lie Down

At Night And Chew Their Cuds, Such Peaceful Transformation Has That

Great Civilizer, The Locomotive, Wrought In less Than Two Decades.

 

 

 

Another Five Or Six Miles, And The Train Crosses Ash Creek, Which,

Too, Was Once One Of The Favourite Haunts Of The Pawnee And Comanche

On Their Predatory Excursions, In the Days When The Mules And Horses

Of Passing Freight Caravans Excited their Cupidity.  A Short Whirl

Again, And The Town Of Larned, Lying Peacefully On The Arkansas And

Pawnee Fork, Is Reached.  Immediately Opposite The Centre Of The

Street Through Which The Railroad Runs, And Which Was Also The Course

Of The Old Trail, Lying In the Arkansas River, Close To Its Northern

Bank, Is A Small Thickly-Wooded island, Now Reached by A Bridge, That

Is Famous As The Battle-Ground Of A Terrible Conflict Thirty Years Ago,

Between The Pawnees And Cheyennes, Hereditary Enemies, In which The

Latter Tribe Was Cruelly Defeated.

 

 

 

The Railroad Bridge Crosses Pawnee Fork At The Precise Spot Where

The Old Trail Did.  This Locality Has Been The Scene Of Some Of The

Bloodiest Encounters Between The Various Tribes Of Savages Themselves,

And Between Them And The Freight Caravans, The Overland Coaches,

And Every Other Kind Of Outfit That Formerly Attempted the Passage Of

The Now Peaceful Stream.  In fact, The Whole Region From Walnut Creek

To The Mouth Of The Pawnee, Which Includes In its Area Ash Creek

And Pawnee Rock, Seemed to Be The Greatest Resort For The Indians,

Who Hovered about The Santa Fe Trail For The Sole Purpose Of Robbery

And Murder; It Was A Very Lucky Caravan Or Coach, Indeed, That Passed

Through That Portion Of The Route Without Being attacked.

 

 

 

All The Once Dangerous Points Of The Old Trail Having Been Successively

Passed--Cow Creek, Big And Little Coon, And Ash Creek, Fort Dodge,

Fort Aubrey,[73] And Point Of Rocks--The Tourist Arrives At Last At

The Foot-Hills.  At La Junta The Railroad Separates Into Two Branches;

One Going To Denver, The Other On To New Mexico.  Here, A Relatively

Short Distance To The Northwest, On The Right Of The Train, May Be

Seen The Ruins Of Bent'S Fort, The Tourist Having already Passed the

Site Of The Once Famous Big Timbers, A Favourite Winter Camping-Ground

Of The Cheyennes And Arapahoes; But Everywhere Around Him There Reigns

Such Perfect Quiet And Pastoral Beauty, He Might Imagine That The

Peaceful Landscape Upon Which He Looks Had Never Been A Bloody Arena.

 

 

 

I Suggest To The Lover Of Nature That He Should Cross The Raton Range

In The Early Morning, Or Late In the Afternoon; For Then The

Magnificent Scenery Of The Trail Over The High Divide Into New Mexico

Assumes Its Most Beautiful Aspect.

 

 

 

In Approaching The Range From The Old Trail, Or Now From The Railroad,

Their Snow-Clad Peaks May Be Seen At A Distance Of Sixty Miles.

In The Era Of Caravans And Pack-Trains, For Hour After Hour, As They

Moved slowly Toward The Goal Of Their Ambition, The Summit Of The

Fearful Pathway On The Divide, The Huge Forms Of The Mountains Seemed

To Recede, And Yet Ascend Higher.  On The Next Day'S Journey Their

Outlines Appeared more Irregular And Ragged.  Drawing Still Nearer,

Their Base Presented a Long, Dark Strip Stretching Throughout Their

Whole Course, Ever Widening Until It Seemed like A Fathomless Gulf,

Separating The World Of Reality From The Realms Of Imagination Beyond.

 

 

 

Another Weary Twenty Miles Of Dusty Travel, And The Black Void Slowly

Dissolved, And Out Of The Shadows Lines Of Broken, Sterile,

Ferruginous Buttes And Detached masses Of Rocks, Whose Soilless

Surface Refuses Sustenance, Save To A Few Scattered, Stunted pines

And Lifeless Mosses, Emerged to View.

 

 

 

The Progress Of The Weary-Footed mules Or Oxen Was Now Through Ravines

And Around Rocks; Up Narrow Paths Which The Melting Snows Have

Washed out; Sometimes Between Beetling Cliffs, Often To Their Very

Edge, Where Hundreds Of Feet Below The Trail The Tall Trees Seemed

Diminished into Shrubs.  Then Again The Road Led over An Immense Broad

Terrace, For Thousands Of Yards Around, With A Bright Lake Gleaming

In The Refracted light, And Brilliant Alpine Plants Waving Their

Beautiful Flowers On Its Margin.  Still The Coveted summit Appeared

So Far Off As To Be Beyond The Range Of Vision, And It Seemed as If,

Instead Of Ascending, The Entire Mass Underneath Had Been Receding,

Like The Mountains Of Ice Over Which Arctic Explorers Attempt To Reach

The Pole.  Now The Tortuous Trail Passed through Snow-Wreaths Which

The Winds Had Eddied into Indentations; Then Over Bright, Glassy

Surfaces Of Ice And Fragments Of Rocks, Until The Pinnacle Was Reached.

Nearer, Along The Broad Successive Terraces Of The Opposite Mountains,

The Evergreen Pine, The Cedar, With Its Stiff, Angular Branches, And

The Cottonwood, With Its Varied curves And Bright Colours, Were

Crowded into Bunches Or Strung Into Zigzag Lines, Interspersed with

Shrubs And Mountain Plants, Among Which The Flaming Cactus Was

Conspicuous.  To The Right And Left, The Bare Cones Of The Barren

Peaks Rose In multitude, With Their Calm, Awful Forms Shrouded in snow,

And Their Dark Shadows Reflected far Into The Valleys, Like Spectres

From A Chaotic World.

 

 

 

In Going Through The Raton Pass, The Old Santa Fe Trail Meandered up

A Steep Valley, Enclosed on Either Side By Abrupt Hills Covered with

Pine And Masses Of Gray Rock.  The Road Ran Along The Points Of

Varying Elevations, Now In the Stony Bed of Raton Creek, Which It

Crossed fifty-Three Times, The Sparkling, Flitting Waters Of The

Bubbling Stream Leaping and Foaming against The Animals' Feet As They

Hauled the Great Wagons Of The Freight Caravans Over The Tortuous

Passage.  The Creek Often Rushed rapidly Under Large Flat Stones,

Lost To Sight For A Moment, Then Reappearing With A Fresh Impetus And

Dashing Over Its Flinty, Uneven Bed until It Mingled with The Pure

Waters Of Le Purgatoire.

 

 

 

Still Ascending, The Scenery Assumed a Bolder, Rougher Cast; Then

Sudden Turns Gave You Hurried glimpses Of The Great Valley Below.

A Gentle Dell Sloped to The Summit Of The Pass On The West, Then,

Rising On The East By A Succession Of Terraces, The Bald, Bare Cliff

Was Reached, Overlooking The Whole Region For Many Miles, And This Is

Raton Peak.[74]

 

 

 

The Extreme Top Of This Famous Peak Was Only Reached after More Than

An Hour'S Arduous Struggle.  On The Lofty Plateau The Caravans And

Pack-Trains Rested their Tired animals.  Here, Too, The Lonely Trapper,

When Crossing The Range In quest Of Beaver, Often Chose This Lofty

Spot On Which To Kindle His Little Fire And Broil Juicy Steaks Of The

Black-Tail Deer, The Finest Venison In the World; But Before He

Indulged in the Savoury Morsels, If He Was In the Least Superstitious

Or Devout, Or Inspired by The Sublime Scene Around Him, He Lighted

His Pipe, And After Saluting The Elevated ridge On Which He Sat By The

First Whiff Of The Fragrant Kinnikinick, Indian-Fashion, He In turn

Offered homage In the Same Manner To The Sky Above Him, The Earth

Beneath, And To The Cardinal Points Of The Compass, And Was Then

Prepared to Eat His Solitary Meal In a Spirit Of Thankfulness.

 

 

 

Far Below This Magnificent Vantage-Ground Lies The Valley Of The

Rio Las Animas Perdidas.  On The Other Verge Of The Great Depression

Rise The Peerless, Everlastingly Snow-Wreathed spanish Peaks,[75]

Whose Giant Summits Are Grim Sentinels That For Untold Ages Have

Witnessed hundreds Of Sanguinary Conflicts Between The Wily Nomads

Of The Vast Plains Watered by The Silent Arkansas.

 

 

 

All Around You Snow-Clad Mountains Lift Their Serrated crowns Above

The Horizon, Dim, White, And Indistinct, Like Icebergs Seen At Sea

By Moonlight; Others, Nearer, More Rugged, Naked of Verdure, And

Irregular In contour, Seem To Lose Their Lofty Summits In the Intense

Blue Of The Sky.

 

 

 

Fisher'S Peak, Which Is In full View From The Train, Was Named from

The Following Circumstance: Captain Fisher Was A German Artillery

Officer Commanding a Battery In general Kearney'S Army Of The West In

The Conquest Of New Mexico And Was Encamped at The Base Of The Peak

To Which He Involuntarily Gave His Name.  He Was Intently Gazing at

The Lofty Summit Wrapped in the Early Mist, And Not Being Familiar

With The Illusory Atmospheric Effects Of The Region, He Thought That

To Go There Would Be Merely A Pleasant Promenade.  So, Leaving Word

That He Would Return To Breakfast, He Struck Out At A Brisk Walk For

The Crest.  That Whole Day, The Following Night, And The Succeeding

Day, Dragged their Weary Hours On, But No Tidings Of The Commanding

Officer Were Received at The Battery, And Ill Rumours Were Current

Of His Death By Indians Or Bears, When, Just As His Mess Were About

To Take Their Seats At The Table For The Evening Meal, Their Captain

Put In an Appearance, A Very Tired but A Wiser Man.  He Started to Go

To The Peak, And He Went There!

 

 

 

On The Summit Of Another Rock-Ribbed elevation Close By, The Tourist

Will Notice The Shaft Of An Obelisk.  It Is Over The Grave Of George

Simpson, Once A Noted mountaineer In the Days Of The Great Fur

Companies.  For A Long Time He Made His Home There, And It Was His

Dying Request That The Lofty Peak He Loved so Well While Living Should

Be His Last Resting-Place.