Chapter Fifty One.
The Orphan Butte.
The landscape over which we were looking was one that has long been celebrated, in the legends of trapper and cibolero, and certainly no lovelier is to be met with in the midland regions of America. Though new to my eyes, I recognised it from the descriptions I had read and heard of it. There was an idiosyncrasy in its features—especially in that lone mound rising conspicuously in its midst—which at once proclaimed it the valley of the Huerfano. There stood the “Orphan Butte.” There was no mistaking its identity.
This valley, or, more properly, vallé—a word of very different signification—is in reality a level plain, flanked on each side by a continuous line of bluffs or “benches”—themselves forming the abutments of a still higher plain, which constitutes the general level of the country. The width between the bluffs is five or six miles; but, at the distance of some ten miles from our point of view, the cliffs converge—apparently closing in the valley in that direction. This, however, is only apparent. Above the butte is another deep cañon, through which the river has cleft its way. The intervening space is a picture fair to behold. The surface, level as a billiard-table, is covered with gramma grass, of a bright, almost emerald verdure. The uniformity of this colour is relieved by cotton-wood copses, whose foliage is but one shade darker. Commingling with these, and again slightly darkening the hue of the frondage, are other trees, with a variety of shrubs or climbing-plants—as clematis, wild roses, and willows. Here and there, a noble poplar stands apart—as if disdaining to associate with the more lowly growth of the groves.
These “topes” are of varied forms: some rounded, some oval, and others of more irregular shape. Many of them appear as if planted by the hands of the landscape-gardener; while the Huerfano, winding through their midst, could not have been more gracefully guided, had it been specially designed for an “ornamental water.”
The butte itself, rising in the centre of the plain, and towering nearly two hundred feet above the general level, has all the semblance of an artificial work—not of human hands, but a cairn constructed by giants. Just such does it appear—a vast pyramidal cone, composed of huge prismatic blocks of granite, black almost as a coal—the dark colour being occasioned by an iron admixture in the rock. For two-thirds of its slope, a thick growth of cedar covers the mound with a skirting of darkest green. Above this appear the dark naked prisms—piled one upon the other, in a sort of irregular crystallisation, and ending in a summit slightly truncated. Detached boulders lie around its base, huge pieces that having yielded to the disintegrating influences of rain and wind, had lost their balance, and rolled down the declivity of its sides. No other similar elevation is near—the distant bluffs alone equalling it in height. But there the resemblance ends; for the latter are a formation of stratified sandstone, while the rocks composing the butte are purely granitic! Even in a geological point of view, is the Orphan Butte isolated from all the world. In a double sense, does it merit its distinctive title.
Singular is the picture formed by this lone mound, and the park-like scene that surrounds it—a picture rare as fair. Its very framing is peculiar. The bench of light-reddish sandstone sharply outlined on each edge—the bright green of the sward along its base—and the dark belt of cedars cresting its summit, form, as it were, a double moulding to the frame. Over this can be distinguished the severer outlines of the great Cordilleras; above them, again, the twin cones of the Wa-to-yah; and grandly towering over all, the sharp sky-piercing summit of Pike’s Peak. All these forms gleaming in the full light of a noonday sun, with a heaven above them of deep ethereal blue, present a picture that for grandeur and sublimity is not surpassed upon the earth.
A long while could we have gazed upon it; but an object, that came at once under our eyes, turned our thoughts into a far different channel. Away up the valley, at its furthest end, appeared a small white spot—little bigger to our view than the disc of an archer’s target. It was of an irregular roundish form; and on both sides of it were other, shapes—smaller and of darker hue. We had no difficulty in making out what these appearances were: the white object was the tilt of a waggon: the dark forms around it were those of men—mounted and afoot! It must have been the last waggon of the train: since no other could be seen; and as it appeared at the very end of the valley—in the angle formed by the convergence of the cliffs—we concluded that there the cañon opened into which the rest had entered. Whether the waggon seen was moving onward, we did not stay to determine. The caravan was in sight; and this, acting upon us like an electric influence, impelled us to hasten forward.
Calling to our companions to advance, we remounted our horses, rode out of the gorge, and kept on up the valley. We no longer observed the slightest caution. The caravan was before our eyes; and there could be no doubt that, in a couple of hours, we should be able to come up with it. As to danger, we no longer thought of such a thing. Indians would scarcely be so daring as to assail us within sight of the train? Had it been night, we might have reasoned differently; but, under the broad light of day, we could not imagine there was the slightest prospect of danger. We resolved, therefore, to ride direct for the waggons, without making halt.