“That’s the cut-off down from the Salt Lake Overland Trail up the Platte,” quoth Billy, promptly. “The bull trains travel that trail.”
XIII
THE CHERRY CREEK DIGGIN’S
With so many people making for Cherry Creek over several trails it seemed a pity to waste a night by camping. But when darkness settled the trail was ablaze with the camp-fires of the emigrants who, like the Hee-Haw outfit, had halted until dawn. Afar blinked the lights of the “Pike’s Peak settlements”; and miles distant, north across the plain, were the bright dots betokening the camps of those emigrants entering by the Salt Lake Overland Trail.
The whole procession was early astir with the dawn; even Left-over was up as soon as anybody, eager to be digging out his pound of gold a day.
The trail down Cherry Creek was six inches deep with dust, ground to powder by the constant wheels and hoofs. In a great cloud it rose as the wagons and animals and persons ploughed through it; to the north lifted other dust lines, where the rival travel likewise pressed forward to the goal. It was an inspiring scene, almost as good as a race; but Left-over grumbled:
“I don’t call this Pike’s Peak,” he said. “And where’s Denver City? I don’t see any city.”
“City or not,” remarked the Reverend Mr. Baxter, “it’s a wonderful thing, Davy—all these people, from all over the United States, setting out overland, breaking new trails, and founding a town away out here, six hundred miles across the desert, at the foot of those snowy mountains! It’s taken a lot of pluck and a lot of trust in Providence.”
“Where do you calculate on stopping, boys?” queried a black-eyed, sharp-nosed man who was riding down along the column.