METEOROLOGICAL.
Hot weather is pleasant to have—in Denver—and I didn’t escape because of hot weather. But I have lived there a long time and know a number of people, and every time I met a fellow on the street he was sure to say: “Hot, ain’t it?” Five minutes after, if I met the same man, he would pull off his hat, mop his head with a handkerchief, and as if it had just occurred to him, tell me the same thing, with an emphatic prefix. By way of change it is interesting to see a couple of fellows meet on the sidewalk, shake hands, and hear them tell each other “it’s hot.” The amount of information mutually imparted is gratifying, and makes one think, at first, that life is worth living. But when this delight is experienced a hundred times a day for a couple of weeks, one begins to sigh for the old stand-by: “What’s new?” “Nothing.” The monotony becomes exasperating, and even one not given to profanity stands in imminent peril of falling into the prevailing habit. Shakespeare, Mother Goose, or some other mortal plethoric with wisdom, has informed us that evil associations corrupt good manners. I was being led astray; I knew it, in fact.
The air was becoming thickly freighted with expletives; heat and profanity, as I had been taught to believe, before “the new version,” were inseparable. The maternal admonition came back to me in all its bitter sweetness, and I had the fortitude to shun the temptation. In the classic language of this age, “I lit out” for lighter air and a purer atmosphere; I did not find what I wanted until I got beyond Golden. When the train entered the cañon the sublime grandeur of—but I promised not to say anything about Clear Creek Cañon, as that has been written about once before. I took it all in, however, cinders included; all except “that mule.” I have never been able to find “that mule.” Several years since I was advised of the existence of “the mule,” and though I firmly believed at the time that my informant was only trying to make himself agreeable, I have, upon every occasion, faithfully looked out from the mouth of the cañon to Beaver Brook for the picture of that much-abused hybrid. The nearest approach to success in my efforts was a spotted cow, three years ago, browsing among the rocks—but she is not there now.
At Dumont a friend of mine climbed on the train, and the first thing he said to me was: “It’s hot in Denver.” He did not speak interrogatively, but the remark was affirmative, in a tone of defiance. I asked him if he had ever heard of Billy the Kid. He said he had and that he was dead. I told him that was a mistake, “He is not dead,” said I, “he’s on the train with me. I have hired him to go as far as Empire to kill the first man who says the word ‘hot’ to me. There he sits,” and I pointed to our very sedate fellow-townsman, Judge ——, who sat behind us deeply immersed in a formidable bundle of law papers.
“The devil!” said my friend.
“Yes, he is, and a dead shot; let me introduce you—come.”
“Excuse me, my wife is in the other car, just up from Denver, and I havn’t seen her for a week. Some other time I’ll be happy.”
I do not understand why it is that this generation is so given to lying. That friend of mine is not married, and he must know that I am aware of it; yet he slid out of the car with all the bustle of a conscientious man of family. In fact he was too anxious, except for a Benedict in the honey-moon. When he left I went over and sat down by the Judge. In the meantime the latter had folded up his papers and wanted to know of me, first thing, if I had ever read Pompelli or some other fellow, who had traveled in Abyssinia, where the mercury stood habitually at 150°, when you could find a shady place for the thermometer; where the natives cut steaks out of the live oxen, sewed up the wounds and cooked the meat in the sun; where these same natives went about naked with raw hide umbrellas, and each fellow carried a pair of tweezers in his pocket to pull the cactus thorns out of his feet. While being entertained with these veracious statements, I discovered that our car had suddenly become quite full, and that the Judge and I were objects of interest. Just then the engineer sounded the whistle for Empire, and I gathered up my creel and grip-sack of commissaries, and made for the door. As I got off the platform I heard one passenger tell another that “the reward is $2,000,” and as the train started on I noticed the Judge in animated conversation with a burly fellow whose prominent features were a heavy moustache and a square jaw. The Judge is a good man—physically, I mean—but I shall not see him again for a month, and if it comes to the worst, roughing it in the hills has a tendency to take off flesh and put on muscle. I take comfort in the reflection.