In Fact, We
Could See At A Distance A Number Of Little Black Specks, Like
Horsemen In Rapid Motion.
Henry Chatillon, with Shaw and myself,
galloped toward them to reconnoiter, when to our amusement we saw the
supposed Arapahoes resolved into the black tops of some pine trees
which grew along a ravine.
The summits of these pines, just visible
above the verge of the prairie, and seeming to move as we ourselves
were advancing, looked exactly like a line of horsemen.
We encamped among ravines and hollows, through which a little brook
was foaming angrily. Before sunrise in the morning the snow-covered
mountains were beautifully tinged with a delicate rose color. A
noble spectacle awaited us as we moved forward. Six or eight miles
on our right, Pike's Peak and his giant brethren rose out of the
level prairie, as if springing from the bed of the ocean. From their
summits down to the plain below they were involved in a mantle of
clouds, in restless motion, as if urged by strong winds. For one
instant some snowy peak, towering in awful solitude, would be
disclosed to view. As the clouds broke along the mountain, we could
see the dreary forests, the tremendous precipices, the white patches
of snow, the gulfs and chasms as black as night, all revealed for an
instant, and then disappearing from the view. One could not but
recall the stanza of "Childe Harold":
Morn dawns, and with it stern Albania's hills,
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak,
Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills,
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak,
Arise; and, as the clouds along them break,
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer:
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak,
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear,
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year.
Every line save one of this description was more than verified here.
There were no "dwellings of the mountaineer" among these heights.
Fierce savages, restlessly wandering through summer and winter, alone
invade them. "Their hand is against every man, and every man's hand
against them."
On the day after, we had left the mountains at some distance. A
black cloud descended upon them, and a tremendous explosion of
thunder followed, reverberating among the precipices. In a few
moments everything grew black and the rain poured down like a
cataract. We got under an old cotton-wood tree which stood by the
side of a stream, and waited there till the rage of the torrent had
passed.
The clouds opened at the point where they first had gathered, and the
whole sublime congregation of mountains was bathed at once in warm
sunshine. They seemed more like some luxurious vision of Eastern
romance than like a reality of that wilderness; all were melted
together into a soft delicious blue, as voluptuous as the sky of
Naples or the transparent sea that washes the sunny cliffs of Capri.
On the left the whole sky was still of an inky blackness; but two
concentric rainbows stood in brilliant relief against it, while far
in front the ragged cloud still streamed before the wind, and the
retreating thunder muttered angrily.
Through that afternoon and the next morning we were passing down the
banks of the stream called La Fontaine qui Bouille, from the boiling
spring whose waters flow into it. When we stopped at noon, we were
within six or eight miles of the Pueblo. Setting out again, we found
by the fresh tracks that a horseman had just been out to reconnoiter
us; he had circled half round the camp, and then galloped back full
speed for the Pueblo. What made him so shy of us we could not
conceive. After an hour's ride we reached the edge of a hill, from
which a welcome sight greeted us. The Arkansas ran along the valley
below, among woods and groves, and closely nestled in the midst of
wide cornfields and green meadows where cattle were grazing rose the
low mud walls of the Pueblo.
CHAPTER XXI
THE PUEBLO AND BENT'S FORT
We approached the gate of the Pueblo. It was a wretched species of
fort of most primitive construction, being nothing more than a large
square inclosure, surrounded by a wall of mud, miserably cracked and
dilapidated. The slender pickets that surmounted it were half broken
down, and the gate dangled on its wooden hinges so loosely, that to
open or shut it seemed likely to fling it down altogether. Two or
three squalid Mexicans, with their broad hats, and their vile faces
overgrown with hair, were lounging about the bank of the river in
front of it. They disappeared as they saw us approach; and as we
rode up to the gate a light active little figure came out to meet us.
It was our old friend Richard. He had come from Fort Laramie on a
trading expedition to Taos; but finding, when he reached the Pueblo,
that the war would prevent his going farther, he was quietly waiting
till the conquest of the country should allow him to proceed. He
seemed to consider himself bound to do the honors of the place.
Shaking us warmly by the hands, he led the way into the area.
Here we saw his large Santa Fe wagons standing together. A few
squaws and Spanish women, and a few Mexicans, as mean and miserable
as the place itself, were lazily sauntering about. Richard conducted
us to the state apartment of the Pueblo, a small mud room, very
neatly finished, considering the material, and garnished with a
crucifix, a looking-glass, a picture of the Virgin, and a rusty horse
pistol. There were no chairs, but instead of them a number of chests
and boxes ranged about the room. There was another room beyond, less
sumptuously decorated, and here three or four Spanish girls, one of
them very pretty, were baking cakes at a mud fireplace in the corner.
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