"Bother, stranger!" he rejoined; "The Almighty'd nothin to du with this yer region. 'Tother fellar (pointing downward) made Bitter Creek, ef it ever war made at all; tho, I reckin, it war just left!"
"But what about the coal?" I said.
"Dunno ef there's enny thar! But ef thar be, Providence only 'lowed it, jist to help in the last conflaggerration—you bet! He didn't mean enny human critter to live yer, and mine it—not by a long shot—you bet!"
At several points, however, we observed the bluffs abounded in slate shales, and other coal-bearing earths; and as we suspected then, the Union Pacific Railroad has already developed a vast deposit of coal there. Bitter Creek itself flowed sluggishly by us for a day or so, and was a little miserable stream, that just managed to crawl—usually at the bottom of a deep gulch or abrupt cañon—its chalky color proclaiming its alkali taint even before you tasted it. We must have followed it for a hundred miles or more, and yet it continued very nearly the same in size throughout. What water it drained in one locality was largely evaporated in another, and its wretched, villanous character made it everywhere an eye-sore, instead of a pleasing feature in the landscape as it should have been. But enough of Bitter Creek, and its God-forsaken region.
Past Green river, here a considerable stream, we entered the Butte region, and one evening just before sunset approached Church Butte, the most famous of them all. It was too late in the day to explore it, but we had a grand view of it in the shifting sunlight, as we drove slowly by. On the box with the driver, a portion of it was pointed out, that resembled a colossal Dutchman, about lifting to his mouth a foaming beaker. Further on, as we rolled westward, the Teuton faded out, and the church-like character of the Butte more fully appeared. Seen from the west, it presents a very wonderful likeness to an old-time cathedral, of the Gothic type, and at a distance might well be taken for the crumbling ruins of some such edifice, though of cyclopean proportions. Porch, nave, dome, caryatides, fluted columns, bas-reliefs, broken roof and capitals—all are there in shapes more or less perfect, and the illusion was very striking in the shadowy twilight. The Butte itself, like most others there, is a vast mass of sandstone, covered with tenacious blue clay, both of which are being constantly chiseled down by wind and rain. These buttes all seemed either to have been upheaved from the dead level around them, or else to be the surviving portions of great mountain chains, from which the earth has been washed or blown away, leaving their skeletons—so to speak—behind in solitary grandeur. The latter theory seemed more probable, judging by the general direction of the buttes themselves. Much of the scenery about here for a hundred miles or so, was enlivened by sandstone bluffs, cut and chiseled by the elements into castles, fortresses, etc., that frowned majestically at us in the distance; but we were only too glad to quit their grandeur and sublimity, that turned only to barren rocks as we approached, and to hail some signs of cultivation again as we neared Fort Bridger. No doubt the wind has been an important agency in fashioning all these, though scarcely to the extent that is claimed by some travellers. In Bowles' "Across the Continent," he tells a story about a wind-storm down in Colorado, that dashed the sand against a window so furiously, that a common pane of glass was converted into "the most perfect of ground glass," in a single night! We met a good many Coloradoans, who were laughing at this "yarn," and were told to set it down among other good "Rocky Mountain" stories. The fact is, people who live out there on those vast Plains, or among those great Mountains, become demoralized with the amplitude of everything; and when they attempt to narrate, unconsciously—I suppose—get to exaggerating. Not intentionally; of course not. But bigness "rules the hour," and we early learned to distrust—and discount largely—most of the extraordinary stories we heard.
We reached Fort Bridger late at night (Oct. 8th), and found ourselves pretty well jaded, both in body and mind. We had been four days and nights continuously on the road since leaving Denver, and in that time had made four hundred and eighty miles. This was the hardest ride by stage-coach we had had yet, and altogether was a pretty fair test of one's power of endurance. We became so accustomed to the coach, that we could fall asleep almost any time; but slumber in a stage-coach, or rather "mountain mud-wagon," is only a poor apology for "tired nature's sweet restorer," after all. The first night out, there being but five of us, four each "pre-empted" a corner, while the fifth man "camped down" on the middle seat. Along about 11 p. m. we struck a piece of extra good road, the conversation gradually wound up, each settled back into his great-coat and robe, and presently we were all fairly off into dreamland. A half hour or so rolls by, when bump goes the coach against an obstinate rock, or chuck into a malicious mud-hole; your neighbor's head comes bucking against you, or you go bucking wildly against him; the man on the middle seat rolls off and wakes up, with a growl or objurgation, that seems half excusable; your friends on the front seat get their legs tangled and twisted up with yours, or you get yours twisted and tangled up with theirs—you don't exactly know which; and, in short, everybody wakes up chaotic and confused, not to say dismal and cross. Of course you try it again after a while, you wrap your robes still better about you, you adjust your legs more carefully than before, and settling down again into your corner, think now you will surely get a good sleep. However, you hardly get to nodding fairly, before there comes a repetition of your former dismal experiences, and so the night wears on like a hideous dream. A series of unusual jolts and bumps disgusts every one with even the attempt to sleep, and presently all hands drift into a general talk or smoke. The history of one night is the wretched history of all—only each successive one, as you advance, becomes "a little more so." Long before reaching Fort Bridger, we were in a sort of a half-comatose condition, with every bone aching, and every inch of flesh sore, and with the romance of stage-coaching gone from us forever. Now, if a man's body were made of india-rubber, or his arms and legs were telescopic, so as to lengthen out and shorten up, perhaps such continuous travelling would not be so bad. But, as it is, I confess, it was a great weariness to the flesh, and looking back on it now, with the Pacific Railroad completed—its express trains and palace-cars in motion—I don't really see how poor human nature managed to endure it. Conversation is a good thing per se, but most men converse themselves out in a day or two. So, a good joke or a popular song helps to fill the hiatus somewhat, and accordingly we buried "John Brown," and "Rallied round the flag," and "Marched through Georgia," day after day, until they got to be a "bore," even to the most severely patriotic among us. Our only constant and unfailing friends were our briar-wood pipes, and what a corps de reserve they were! Possibly smoking has its evils—I don't deny it—but no man has thoroughly tested the heights and depths of life, or shall I say its altitudes and profundities, its joys and its sorrows, its mysteries and miseries—especially stage-coaching—who has not bowed at the shrine of Killykinnick, and puffed and whiffed as it pleased him. There is such comfort, and solace, and philosophy in it, when sojourning on the Plains, or camped down among the Mountains, or cast away in a stage-coach, that all the King Jameses and Dr. Trasks in the universe, I suspect, will never be able to overcome or abolish it.
Our horses were usually steady-going enough, the splendid teams of the Plains; but one night, just before reaching Fort Bridger, we had a team of fiery California mustangs, never geared up but once before, and, of course, they ran away. The road was slightly descending, but pretty smooth, and for the time our heavy, lumbering mountain mud-wagon went booming along, like a ship under full sail. Presently, too, the lead-bars broke, and as they came rattling down on the heels of the leaders, we had every prospect for awhile of a general over-turn and smash-up. But our driver, a courageous skillful Jehu, "put down the brakes," and at length succeeded in halting his runaways, just as we approached a rocky precipice, over which to have gone would have been an ugly piece of business. We expected an upset every minute, with all its attending infelicities; but luckily escaped.
We halted at Fort Bridger two or three days, to inspect this post and consider its bearings, and so became pretty well rested up again. Some miles below the Fort, Green River subdivides into Black's and Smith's Forks, and the valleys of both of these we found contained much excellent land. Judge Carter, the sutler and postmaster at Bridger, and a striking character in many ways, already had several large tracts under cultivation, by way of experiment, and the next year he expected to try more. His grass was magnificent; his oats, barley, and potatoes, very fair; but his wheat and Indian corn wanted more sunshine. The post itself is 7,000 feet above the sea, and the Wahsatch Mountains just beyond were reported snow-capped the year round. Black's Fork runs directly through the parade-ground, in front of the officers' quarters, and was said to furnish superb trout-fishing in season. In summer, it seemed to us, Bridger must be a delightful place; but in winter, rather wild and desolate. Apart from the garrison, the only white people there, or near there, were Judge Carter and his employees. A few lodges of Shoshones, the famous Jim Bridger with them, were encamped below the Fort; but they were quiet and peaceable. The Government Reservation there embraced all the best lands for many miles, and practically excluded settlements; otherwise no doubt quite a population would soon spring up. Sage-hens abounded in the neighboring "divides," and we bagged several of them during a day's ride by ambulance over to Smith's Fork and return. We found them larger and darker, than the Kansas grouse or prairie-chicken; but no less rich and gamey in taste. Maj. Burt, in command at Bridger, was an enthusiastic sportsman; but our ambulance broke down seven miles out, and we had to foot it back after dark.
We were now in Utah proper, and Judge Carter was Probate Judge of the young county there. A Virginian by birth, from near Fairfax Court-House, he enlisted in the army at an early age, and served as a private for awhile in Florida. It was a romantic freak, and his friends soon had him discharged; but he still continued with the army, as purveyor or sutler. Subsequently, he accompanied our troops to California; but afterwards returned east, and followed Albert Sidney Johnston to Utah in 1858. When in that year Fort Bridger was established, he was appointed sutler, and had continued there ever since. Gradually his sutler-store had grown to be a trade-store with the Indians, and passing emigrants; and in 1866 he reported his sales at $100,000 per year, and increasing. He was a shrewd, intelligent man, with a fine library and the best eastern newspapers, who had seen a vast deal of life in many phases on both sides of the continent, and his hospitality was open-handed and generous even for a Virginian.
We left Fort Bridger October 12th, at 10 p. m., in the midst of gusty winds that soon turned to rain, and reached Salt Lake City the next night about midnight; distance 120 miles. We halted for breakfast at the head of Echo Cañon, and were at a loss to account for the air of neatness and refinement, that pervaded the rude station, until we noticed Scott's Marmion and the Bible lying on a side shelf. Two nice looking ladies waited on the table, and it is safe to conclude a taste for literature and religion will keep people civilized and refined almost anywhere. Echo Cañon itself proved to be a narrow rocky defile, some thirty miles long through the heart of the mountains there, with a little brawling creek flowing through it. Its red sandstone walls mostly tower above you for several hundred feet, and in places quite overhang the road. Here in 1857-8, Brigham Young made his famous stand against the United States, and flooded the cañon by damming the creek at various points. The remains of his dam, and of various rude fortifications, were still perceptible; but Judge Carter reported them all of small account, as Johnston's engineers knew of at least two other passes, by either of which they could have flanked the Mormon position, and so entered the valley. He said, our troops should have marched at once on Salt Lake, without halting at Bridger as they did; but the Mormons showed fight, and our commanding officer—not liking the looks of things—called a council of war, after which, of course, we did nothing. Councils of war, it is well-nigh settled, never do. Clive, that brave soldier of his time, never held a council of war but once, and then made his fortune by disregarding its decision. When Sidney Johnston assumed command, late in the fall of 1857, he had no orders to advance; and, therefore, inferred he was wanted merely to maintain the status quo! Accordingly he made haste to do nothing, and soon after went into winter-quarters. Meanwhile, Brigham—unmolested by our show of force—waxed fat and kicked. The next spring a compromise was effected, which like most other "compromises" decided nothing, and left the "saints" as saucy as ever. Judge C. knew all the men of that troubled period well, especially Army people; and said he had long thought, that the reason why the troops were not ordered forward was, because Davis, Floyd, & Co., were already looking ahead to secession in the near future, and did not care to establish coercion as a precedent. They feared such a precedent might be quoted against their own "sovereign" States, in such a contingency, and so managed to have the Army instructed How not to do it, until Brigham found a convenient loop-hole, and crept out of the scrape himself. Verily, the ways of politicians are "past finding out!"