The Pike's Peak Rush Part 16

So saying, Ike reached into the barrel, and extracting his prize, held it up. Harry nudged Terry; staring, Terry saw, recognized, gasped.

"Thunder Horse! Aw----"

"Do you know, I kind of expected that," alleged Harry. "I kind of felt it was coming."

The face of the severed head was a.s.suredly the hideous face of Thunder Horse, the drunken Kiowa; and the hair was the Kiowa's hair.

"Thunder Horse died because of his leg, and Ike found him and cut off his head!" scoffed Terry. "I'm going straight to the wagon and show the whole thing up. We'll make Ike look sick--that old blow and his barrel and his 'big-chief' head!"

"No," opposed Harry. "Wait. There's no use in showing Ike up now. We'll save our ammunition."

"Well, I'm mighty glad old Thunder Horse is gone, anyhow," observed Terry, as they went back to the cart. "He was bad medicine."

The Ohio party were starting on. So the boys from the Big Blue put Duke and Jenny to work again and fell in with the procession wending broad way up the shallow valley of the Republican.

Once every day the procession opened to give pa.s.sage to the stages westward bound on the trail; and at last stages eastward bound, returning to Leavenworth, were met. They were a.s.sailed with all kinds of questions, but they brought little news of importance, and apparently little gold.

Many people eastward bound, ahorse or afoot, also were met.

"Turn back, every one of you," they advised. "Folks are going out faster'n they're coming in. Some of 'em don't even stop to unhitch their teams. Picks and spades are offered at fifteen cents apiece, and no takers, and the man who makes fifty cents a day is lucky."

"Auraria's burned and we've hanged the boomers," proclaimed another squad.

And another squad, trudging along, warned earnestly:

"Look out for the man with buckskin patches on his breeches. He's the leader of the gang who's robbing the pilgrims. Remember the buckskin patches. There's no elephant--only jacka.s.ses."

Not few in the procession did turn back, especially when the water and fuel began to fail, as wider and more bare and sandy the valley became.

Soon there were several marches without water at all, for the river had sunk into the sand. The choking dust floated high, the sun was burning hot. The majority of the animals were sore-footed, from the gravel and cactus and brush. Duke, who had been behaving n.o.bly, seemed to have strained his shoulder and was limping. Jenny was gaunter than ever.

The trail had veered to the southwest--to strike, it was reported, some creeks, and Cherry Creek itself.

"That's another trail yonder to the south, isn't it?" spoke Harry, one morning.

"Yes; and wagons on it!" exclaimed Terry. "Maybe it's the Smoky Hill trail, or the people from the Santa Fe trail."

The "Root Hog or Die" professor, who tramped with them while his oxen followed of their own accord, consulted a map that he carried.

"I think they must be from the Smoky Hill route," he said.

The two lines of travel approached each other, and at evening were about to join. Terry uttered a cheer.

"I see the wheel-barrow man!" he cried. "They're the Smoky Hill crowd, all right."

"They look pretty well used up," remarked Harry. "Must have had a hard trip."

The wheel-barrow man, pus.h.i.+ng bravely, was in the van. His barrow wobbled, and the wheel was reinforced with rawhide, but he himself was as cheery as ever when the Big Blue outfit welcomed him.

"Yes, terrible hard trip," he acknowledged. "Some of us near died with thirst, and I hear tell that several wagons were burnt for fuel, so's to cook food and keep the folks from starving. But those of us who are left are still going."

"Same here," a.s.serted Harry. "How far to the mountains, do you reckon?"

"Better than a hundred miles, but we'll get there."

The next day the pilgrims from the Smoky Hill trail and the pilgrims from the Republican trail traveled on together, with every eye eagerly set ahead, for the first sight of the mountains.

"I see 'em! Hooray!

"There's the land o' gold, boys!"

"Those are the Rocky Mountains! We're almost through."

"They're awful small for their size, aren't they?" quavered a woman.

They did appear so. They were like a band of low hummocky clouds in the western horizon. But the next morning, when the outfits climbed over a gravelly ridge that grew a few pines, one after another they cheered joyfully again. Hats were waved, sunbonnets were flourished. The mountains seemed much closer--they loomed grandly in a semi-circle from south to north; their crests were white, their slopes were green and gray.

"Where's Pike's Peak?"

Everybody wanted to know that. The "Root Hog or Die" professor consulted his map, for information.

"I rather think Pike's Peak is the last peak we see, to the south," he mused. "That to the far north is called Long's Peak."

"Where are the diggin's, then?"

"Well, they're somewhere in between."

From the piny ridge the route descended along the side of a brushy valley pleasantly dotted with cottonwoods and other leafy trees, and struck the head of a creek course--and presently another trail on which, from the south, still other pilgrim outfits were hastening northward at best speed.

Where the trail from the east joined with this second trail from the south a signboard faced, pointing north, with the words: "Santa Fe-Salt Lake Trail. Cherry Creek Diggin's, 70 m."

"Cherry Creek at last!" affirmed Harry, that evening. "Whew, but that mountain air tastes good!"

Now this combined trail on northwest to the diggin's was a well-traveled trail indeed, deep with sand and dust. Occasionally it dipped into the creek bed, which in places was wide enough and dry enough for the teams.

The mountains were on the left--distant thirty miles, declared the professor, although the greenhorns declared they were within a short walk. High rolling plains were on the right.

A few prospectors were encountered, already digging and was.h.i.+ng in the creek, or scouting about. From the last night's camp a little bevy of lights could be seen, ahead--the diggin's at the mouth of the creek!

During the next morning----

"There's the river! There's the Platte!" announced voices, indicating a line of cottonwoods before.

Wagons coming down from the north, by the Platte trail, also could be seen, making for a collection of tents and huts gathered near where the Cherry Creek apparently emptied into the Platte.

Much excitement reigned throughout the procession. The wheel-barrow man already had trundled ahead. Duke limped gamely, and Jenny kept her long ears p.r.i.c.ked forward. Now it was every outfit for itself, in order to secure the best location and get to work.

In mid-afternoon the trail forked, and signs directed: "To the left for Auraria, the coming metropolis," and "Straight ahead for Denver City."

Men were stationed here, beseeching the pilgrims to settle in Auraria, or in Denver, and make their fortunes. The men were red-faced and perspiring and earnest.

Auraria was the older, and on the mountain side of the creek--had the newspaper! Denver was the better built, and the more enterprising, was on the trail side of the creek and had the stage office.