The Awakening of the Desert

by Julius Charles Birge

As all the operations were conducted in a single room, the Governor conversed with the young woman while she was preparing the meal. In reply to his questions she said that she and her husband had been alone the greater part of the time during the Indian troubles, and in fact since the station was built. She had no physician or nurse to assist her at any time, but she and her husband had been able to care for the stage passengers, who stopped for their meals, and had protected the company's horses to the best of their ability, yet some of them had been run off by the Indians.

The Governor interested the lady by unrolling a superb grizzly-bear skin, which he was taking to Washington as a gift to the President.

At one of the stations I observed a circular cellar roofed with earth so as to be fireproof, the sides being built up two or three feet above the surface of the ground and provided with port holes. This cellar, or fort, was connected with the station house by a subterranean passage, extending under the roadway, forming a tunnel about seventy feet in length. The cellar afforded a place of retreat, in case the station should be fired, and an excellent defense against attack.

Our driver remarked that the Indians were not the only objects of dread. He said that while bringing some passengers on a recent run out from Denver, he observed that they conferred frankly with one another on the best means for concealing their effects, as holdups were not infrequent. A lady innocently informed her fellow travelers that she had concealed $100 in her stocking and carried but $20 in her portemonnaie. The coach was duly held up at dusk by highwaymen. The attack was so sudden that no defense was made. Each passenger at the point of a revolver was made to pay tribute while the driver was held at the muzzle of a rifle. The woman trembling with fear delivered her portemonnaie and begged for her life. A skinny-looking miner, whose contribution seemed to be unsatisfactory, said to the active road agent of the gang, "If we can rake up another $100 somewhere, will you let us off?" "Yes," said the bandit, "if you will do it d—d quick."

"It's in that woman's stocking," said the apparently frightened miner. The money was promptly secured, and the stage was permitted to proceed. Some curses and threats were soon hurled at the ungallant miner. He finally said, "Me and the woman will fix things up right in the morning."

Sure enough, after the sun was well up the miner reached down his boot leg and hauled out a package of $100 bank-notes, handing the lady from it $200 in good money, and remarked that he was not so mean as he seemed to be, but had thought on the spur of the moment that this was the easiest way of saving all further unnecessary trouble. He had saved just $4800 by his diplomacy.

Not all those reckless freebooters were lost to the world even after the iron rails were laid. It may be of interest to catch a glimpse of one of their later haunts and the home of a better class who had for a time been exposed to their influence. The trains at the time in question were running to Kit Carson. It seemed that the gamblers and adventurers of the Southwest had concentered at this point and made its character notorious. It was my fortune to spend a night in that settlement, while en route to Fort Lyon on the Santa Fe trail. The tavern was a big saloon and was said to be the rendezvous for many men who had served their apprenticeship on the road, and was the resort of other experts from the States.

"Can't give you a bed until after midnight," said the proprietor in reply to my request for a room.

The only comfortable waiting place was the billiard room, which afforded shelter until two o'clock in the morning, up to which time whiskey, gambling, and swearing were blended in just and equal proportions. The room having furnished nearly all the revenue to be expected for that night, I was informed that I could sleep upon a billiard table temporarily unused. It then appeared that the billiard tables regularly served this double purpose. Enveloped in a blanket I appropriated the softest spot to be found, and as one by one the abandoned tables were occupied by guests, I became reconciled to my fate.

The next night found me at Las Animas, in a so-called hotel, the partitions of which were made of canvas. Voices could easily be heard from room to room. When I was retiring, the proprietor informed me of the death of an old resident who had been in the colony more than a year, and was therefore an old settler. A little later the same now familiar voice was recognized in another room, as he declared to his wife, "I don't know what in the devil to do about that funeral. They say they are going to get a minister."