Friend Jennie,
It will be two weeks ago tonight since I said good-bye to you at the Pratt House. In that fortnight, I have seen much, have had many experiences, have learned much -- more than I can tell. Three days at home and then I started out to seek my fortune, to see this great, cold world that we hear so much about. My trip across the plains was the most enjoyable journey I ever made. With Fred Hill, Robinson, and Roberts to joke and laugh, the social part of this land voyage could not be otherwise than a success.
The country through Missouri and the eastern half of Kansas is beautiful. I like it better than Illinois. The Kansas valley through which the Kansas Pacific runs, is rich and fertile. On either side is a range of smooth, green, Ioaf-shaped hills, whose beauty is enhanced by forests between with varying light and shade. The railroad sometimes runs close to the river and sometimes almost under the hills. Beyond Salina the country is very sparsely settled. A little school house here and there showed that we were not yet out of civilization. Farther west the country is thickly settled. The crops have a fine appearance and the yield will be large.
When I awoke the next morning, I was on the plains in the western county of Kansas. Somewhere in the night we had left the fertile prairies and entered the vast plains of the far West As far as the eye could reach was that flat expanse, covered with thin, dry, short grass. The monotony was varied once in a great while by a squatter's cabin or dirt house, a furrow around some land, and a field whose crop would never pay the harvesting. Sometimes the wagon of a prairie schooner was taken off and the remainder set upon the ground constituted the whole habitation. At Wallace, a small railroad town, a dozen ponies were waiting to carry the mail to distant ranches. Old Ft. Wallace is in sight. Herds of antelope and the interesting villages of prairie dogs soon became quite numerous.
As we got into Colorado, vegetation became drier and scantier. Cactus, sage, and soap weed are the principal forms. The day was hot, and the high wind coming from that hot dry sand was almost stifling. Truly, this might be called the Great American Desert, as it was named in the geographies of fifty years ago. The refraction makes one think himself in a huge basin. The country toward the west is quite broken. For miles the route is along the banks of the Big Sandy -- in spring a roaring river, but now perfectly dry, the wide sandy bed covered with a white alkaline crust. For a hundred miles, of all the streams we crossed only two or three had water. The stations contain only two or three huts, log cabins, mud houses or tents. In some there is only a side track to indicate that it is a station and not a sign of a habitation. Kit Carson, which a few years ago was a city of 7,000 with the reputation of being the hardest town in the United States how has four or five sod houses, two cabins and another building with the sign "The Palace," "Poker," painted on it in rude letters. A lot of holes in the ground marked the site of the once prosperous city. Sometimes in the distance, as we went along a house and a corral could be seen in the more fertile valleys.
The first sight of the mountains I shall never forget. The afternoon sun, shining through a rift in the clouds which overhung the mountains, struck the snow of the peaks, was reflected on the many- colored vegetation at the foot, and lightened up the whole in a thousand tints. Brown and golden, light and shade made it the most magnificent scene I ever witnessed. All along to the north lay peak after peak, while to the south old Pike's towered above the rest. Born and bred in a prairie country, I could never realize that the paintings I had seen could be true; but now I appreciate it all.
While I was thus enraptured with the scenery, the wind, which was blowing sixty miles an hour, lifted my senior hat gently, held it a moment, and then wafted it away out on the plains. I looked longingly after it, sighed, mentally ejaculated: "Now farewell, ah, now farewell, to my senior hat, farewell," and went back into the car for another head covering that I might again enjoy the scenery. So my hat lies mouldering on the plains. Some frontiersman will pick it up and wonder who A. N. Talbot is. Such is the sad fate of not being a great man.
I arrived in Denver on the evening of the third day and spent four days there. Of our experiences, our ups and downs, our disappointments and discouragements, I will say nothing. Owing to the absence of the Chief Engineer, we were not treated as our letters promised. My fortune fluctuated from transitman to chairman and my hopes accordingly. Some of the boys were blue, but the "indigoes" did not attack me. Angel of I.I.U. [Illinois Industrial University] fame is in the draughting office -- has a paying job. Denver is a prosperous and beautiful city. The wealth of the mines has caused it to have a big "boom" in the last two years. Prices are enormous. Potatoes five cents a pound, eggs fifty cents a dozen, etc.
One by one our boys left. Scotchbrook, Abbott, Malby, and Roberts, hold the rod in as many different parties. Fred H. left Sunday morning for Breckenridge, where he has a good job on the South Park road running a level. I left Denver Sunday night.
Here let me diverge to say a few words about the Grand Canyon (Royal Gorge) through which we passed just west of Canon City. The pony engines and little cars of the narrow-gage road wind around the mountains over a track, all curves. In places the solid rock rises almost vertically fifteen hundred feet. At the bottom of the canyon is the Arkansas, a narrow but deep stream, rushing rapidly and noisily down, dashing against huge boulders as large as a house, and being in fact a mountain torrent. A few feet higher than the stream on a ledge cut out, making the sharpest known railroad curves, the road is built. At one place where the canyon is no wider than the bed of the stream and the walls very steep, the train runs on a bridge lengthwise of the stream, suspended from the sides, and really in mid air above the river. The whole railroad is a marvel of engineering skill and is the result of the best brains in the profession. The mountains are rightly termed "Rocky." Some consist of vast boulders piled one upon the other; some of solid rock; while many are covered with scanty vegetation and a thin growth of pines up to the snow line.
Leadville, where I stayed one day, astonished me by its size and business. Saloons and gambling places, billiards tables and faro banks have the biggest business. The streets are full of people, as bad as on Fourth of July in a town in the East. Leadville is a hard, tough place, but one is safe there if he minds his own business. On the hill above the city are the mines which have yielded so plentifully. We came up here yesterday morning and are stopping at the Robinson House -- expenses all paid by the company. The fare is as good as can be found in a Chicago hotel.
We are taking our last taste of luxury before leaving the highest town in the United States as well as the hardest mining camp in Colorado. The railroad has been built here but a few months. Killing a man last winter was an ordinary occurrence. A man was shot in Denver while I was there, one hung in Colorado Springs last Friday, one killed in Leadville last week and one three miles from here two days ago. Last night the train was stopped a mile below here by a mob who wanted to Iynch the murderer of the latter. His life was saved by his absence from the train.
Yet I am not in the least afraid. There is no danger if one behaves himself. The workmen of our party are mountain roughs; gamblers and jailbirds some of them are. Among them is a graduate of Indiana State University and one of the Law Department of the University of Pennsylvania. Roughs they are, but there is a good-heartedness which would serve many moral men a good purpose. Every other building here is a saloon. When the engineer of the party took us up to the bar on our arrival here to treat, and I called for lemonade, there was an audible smile which went over the boss's face as well as the rest of the crowd, ten in all, who all took their whiskey. They call me a "tender foot," a name applied to those who we would say were fresh in the mountains.
This camp is situated on Ten Mile Creek near Roaring Forks. Its location and reputation remind me of "Big Sandy" as read by Cumnock. The miners' camps are situated along the sides of the hill. A rough log hut covered with dirt and some holes in the ground may be seen here and there. This town is in a valley 11,500 feet up and surrounded by mountains some of which are 14,000 feet above the sea.
This morning three of us climbed Sheep Mountain. Starting out with the determination to reach the top of it, we climbed the foot hills, then reached the timber line, then the snow line, then the rocks, but at getting to the top of what each time we thought was the summit where we could get a view to the west, we saw another higher peak above us. Finally we gave up in despair and retraced our footsteps. I had the pleasure of snow balling the boys. The mountain scenery here is beautiful, magnificent, -- and I don't know what else. The clear cold mountain cascades from which we drank this morning, the rocks, the lakes, the pine trees, the snow -- make me go into ecstasies. I suppose it will lose all its poetry when I have to climb cliffs day after day until exhausted and see nothing but mountains and not a sign of a house. I expect that fully, so you see I am enjoying it while I can. If you ever want to take a vacation, come to these mountains. I send you some flowers gathered within six feet of a huge snow bank.
I wish I had my Botany and Geology here; but I couldn't take them if I had. Blankets, a change of clothing, some writing material, and a few small books, constitute my whole outfit. You would smile to see me with my blue flannel shirt, slouched hat, big stogy miner's boots with soles filled with big-headed nails, a revolver in my belt, and a red "bandanna" around my neck. Our party is composed of seventeen men. Richards and Robinson, who go with us are at Kokomo, four miles from here. I have not seen them since Saturday. We do not know when we shall leave here -- are waiting for men and burros. (That is a new word for me but I think it is spelled right.)
I am not in a hurry to leave here as we are living sumptuously and my pay has been going on for a week. I do not know where we are going. Rumor says that we will walk one hundred miles west and run a preliminary line down the Eagle and Grand Rivers through the Ute Reservation. There is some talk of trouble with the Ute Indians, but I think they will be removed before we get there. However, we go well armed, have a rifle apiece.
I have a place as topographer, third man in the party. If I can do the work successfully, (It is work for me) if my health continues as good as it is now and if the Utes don't take my scalp, I shall enjoy it immensely. I have a splendid position, better than I anticipated. It will be a rough life, but the novelty will please me. I think that I will like it better than living in a small village with nothing much to do. I know it will be a striking contrast to the bustling exciting life of the last few weeks at the university; but I have read somewhere that men of brain activity prefer a metropolis or the wilds of territories -- village life becomes wearisome. Not that that term applies to me, but I may find a similar experience.
There I have reached another sheet. Each page I thought would be my last. (You must be nearly bored to death, still I did not know when I would get another opportunity either to write or to post a letter; so I took time by the forelock.) I promise not to overwhelm you again with so much original and uninteresting literature. This has been scratched off in a hurry -- don't take as a model of literary or chirographical elegance. I have not heard from anyone since the morning that I came. Do not know where to have my letters sent or when I will get any. A letter addressed in care of M. D. Dougherty, 413 Lawrence St., Denver will probably reach me.
While you are roasting in Illinois I am sitting by the stove. There I have received a call to go. We leave for camp in a few minutes and tomorrow morning start on our trip. I have not even time to read this over. Hoping to hear from you in the near future I remain
Arthur N. Talbot