USA > Colorado > San Juan County > Pioneering in the San Juan; personal reminiscences of work done in southwestern Colorado during the "great San Juan excitement," > Part 3
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At first the "whisky element" laughed at the idea of much being done in the line of temperance work in a "live" camp. Being without knowledge either of the love or the power of God, they sup- posed that they would remain undisturbed in their wickedness. But before the meetings progressed one week the "whisky element" had organized to fight the movement, and a few Christians were timid
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enough to ask their pastor to be "cautious" in all he said; for some of the lectures had "created a great deal of feeling." But the pastor did not have a "cautious fit on" and, knowing that he was right, went ahead.
After lecturing on the subject, "Does It Pay?" I could see by the looks on the faces of my best friends that they thought I had said too much. Not hav- ing said anything I was unwilling to "back," I stepped from behind the pulpit and remarked: "I have one request to make of my friends, and that is, not to offer apologies for anything Mr. Darley has said, for I mean every word, and am ready to face any man who objects without a pulpit between us; for this is a square-toed fight between right and wrong." A saloon-keeper standing near the door said: "Damn him, let him go; the more we say, the worse he gets."
Before the meetings closed almost all the attor- neys in camp had made one or more temperance speeches. The Catholic priest delivered one tem- perance lecture for us. All "old timers" remember those meetings, and since leaving San Juan I have met men who then signed the pledge and have kept it.
While the movement was at its height I met four
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GOSPEL TEMPERANCE MEETINGS
men, on Silver Street, all decked out in blue ribbons -ribbon around their hats, around their waists and from their shoulders to their waists-all as "drunk as lords!"-all had signed the pledge! So soon as they saw me, they began yelling: "Here are some of your converts, Brother Darley!" I thought that they looked as though someone had converted them, but surely the Lord had not.
One night during Christmas week, after a very interesting and successful meeting, Mrs. Darley said: "My heart aches for the young men in this camp, away from home and home influences. I wish our house were large enough to keep open house on New Year's Day; we could then invite every young man in the camp to call." After con- sultation we decided to try to rent a large store- building that was vacant, if it could be secured, and then ask the ladies to meet and consider plans. Early next morning we learned that we could have the building free. With the same energy and pluck that had characterized their former work, the ladies began making arrangements. It was announced that they would keep open house in said store-build- ing, on New Year's Day, from 9 a. m. to 10 p. m. Long tables were set and loaded with substantial food; a piano was provided and the day enlivened
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with music; in the evening brief addresses were made. The pledge was placed on a table near the door and forty-five signed it.
Only two intoxicated men were seen in the camp New Year's Day. Toward evening I met one of them, a young man, and after talking to him invited him to go home with me. We talked for over an hour. When leaving my house he said: "I will not promise to sign the pledge, but will walk around till I am sober; then I will go to the store-building."
About 9 p. m. he came in, ate a hearty meal, and without being asked signed the pledge. Years afterward I met him in Alamosa. He told me he kept the pledge six months. Our ladies received over six hundred calls. This was the way we kept open house the first day of the New Year, 1878, in a "live" mining-camp.
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CHAPTER VIII
"BURRO-PUNCHING"
"All things hold their march As if by one great will; Moves one moves all- Hark to the footfall On, on forever." -Miss Martineau.
"Burro-punching" is a familiar term, where the business is followed, and means to walk behind a "pack-train" punching the patient, sure-footed and valuable, although greatly abused little animal.
Often have I walked behind a burro when going to preach the Gospel in the "regions beyond." The term "burro-puncher" became so common during the early days of the "Great San Juan Excitement" that all who had anything to do with the little animal were called "burro-punchers." Some who are now counted among the "leading lights" in Colorado were glad to have a burro carry their "grub" and blankets when first they went into the San Juan. This was a safe way of traveling, con- sidering the roughness of the trails. No one feared
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being wrecked by a misplaced switch or a broken rail. Having our own provisions and blankets, we were independent travelers.
As a personal and particular friend of the faithful beast that has done so much to help develop Colo- rado, I regret that many believe the burro has culti- vated the swearer as much as he has the state. Those who abuse the burro and swear at him like a pirate, curse everything; not because they are pro- voked, but because they are habitual swearers. When men have excused themselves for cursing on the ground that the burro is a "stubborn animal," I have answered: "Treat you as a burro is treated and you will become as stubborn as he."
The general belief among packers seems to be that a burro has no feeling, knows neither joy nor pain and expects to be mistreated. Burros suffer terribly, and if men are to be punished for cruelty to animals (I sincerely hope they may be), some men will discover that none of God's creatures can be
tortured and the culprit go free. "A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast," but the average "burro-puncher" seems to think that burros never die. They "just dry up and blow away." I admit they are hard to kill. A "baby burro" fell from the top of a cliff sixty feet in height, into the Gunnison
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River, and was not injured. On Bear Creek Trail, about five miles above Ouray, one packed with flour fell two hundred feet; the weight of the flour turned the burro heels up, and, striking in the snow, his life was saved. Yet the animal can be killed and it some- times dies a natural death. While crossing deep streams, unless their ears are tied, they will drown; but by tying them up they can be pulled across without danger.
After a rope is tied to the burro's neck he is pushed into the stream. The men on the opposite bank begin pulling and, although the burro may go under repeatedly, he is landed all right. As soon as his ears are untied his voice is loosened and breaks forth in trumpet tones of rejoicing, loud enough to be heard far and near.
Those who are unacquainted with the trails in new mining-regions, and the way men travel through Indian countries where there are no houses, bridges or wagon roads, have no idea of the diffi- culties that must be faced. In the winter of '79 a man brought a burro from Mineral Point, at the head of the Uncompahgre River, over Engineer Mountain, to the head of Henson Creek, on snow- shoes. He made the shoes of sole leather and taught the burro to use them. It was slow work,
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PIONEERING IN THE SAN JUAN
yet he succeeded in getting his "jack" across the range. This may sound "fishy," but it is true. Where a burro and a "burro-puncher" cannot go, no other creature need try.
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CHAPTER IX
MY FIRST TRIP TO THE ANIMAS COUNTRY
"An old divine once wrote from the frontier to the students of Princeton : 'We want strong oxen here; we have plenty of roots.'"
-R. A. McConnell, Esq.
My first trip into the Animas country was made at the request of Rev. Sheldon Jackson, D. D., who was Synodical Missionary for more territory than I can remember. At that time the Synod of Colorado embraced Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Montana, New Mexico, Arizona and any other portion that was "lying around loose."
In company with two gentlemen, one an editor, afterward a partner with "Brick" Pomeroy in his big tunnel scheme near Breckenridge, Colorado, I started for Animas City. The object of my trip was to explore the Animas country in the interest of religion in general and of Presbyterianism in particular.
All went well until we struck the deep snow on the range between the Lake Fork of the Gunnison and the headwaters of the Animas River (above "timber line"). It was in July, 1877.
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A trail had been packed by the "burro-punchers," that they might cross to Animas Forks with their pack-trains. Being very narrow, the editor's horse stepped out of it, and down went the horse. Then the fun began. The more the horse plunged the deeper he went. We were without shovels, and therefore in trouble; but fortunately we found, near timber line, some miners working a "prospect." With their shovels and assistance we managed to dig and pack snow until we got the horse on the trail. At Animas Forks we parted company with the editor and journeyed down the Animas River, reaching Silverton that night. In the morning I asked the man who fed my horse-two feeds of corn of five pounds each-how much I owed him. He said he had often heard of Mr. Darley, and guessed I was the preacher, and would not "strike" me very heavy. My bill was two dollars and fifty cents, or twenty-five cents a pound for the corn. I paid it and thanked the man, for I knew the amount was very reasonable. Corn packed in on burros means expense. One man who had the same amount of corn and hay for his horse, swore like a trooper when he found his bill was five dollars; but his swearing did not reduce the amount for horse feed. The man who furnished the feed remarked, very
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MY FIRST TRIP
dryly, "I am not in this country for my health." This swearer wanted to be piloted to Animas City, a town at that time of thirty-three cabins. When we were introduced I could see, by the curl on his lips at the mention of "Reverend," that he would not be an agreeable traveling-companion. Our party increased to four. This swearer was called a gentleman because he had money, wore good clothes and went in polite society.
Many believe that "rough men" or else the smooth sporting characters are the men who delight to swear at and, if the opportunity is given, insult a minister of the Gospel. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Such men, as a general rule, treat a minister respectfully. The class who love to jeer and insult ministers belong to what are commonly called "smart Alexes"-men who claim to have been "well trained," dress well, read infidel books and make pretensions to some position in what they call good society.
I had "sized" my man up and concluded that he had more impudence and general cussedness about him than brains; so was ready for him. The trail was extremely rough. My horse was small and had been on more trips than were for his good. On that part of the trail known as "Old
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Coal Bank Hill," when a long way up, my horse fell while jumping to catch a footing, and rolled more than fifty feet. I was walking behind and came near being carried down with him. The trail was certainly rough.
Before going far my swearing acquaintance seemed disposed to enliven the hard ride of almost sixty miles by having some fun at the "Parson's" expense. He finally called out: "Parson, this is not the road to heaven." Being already loaded, I answered: "No, but there are plenty of such men as you on like trails going to hell, and I am doing what I can to save them." That ended his attempts to have fun at the "Parson's" expense.
We failed to reach Animas City that night, so were compelled to camp. I was without blankets, but my companion shared his. It being my object to find out as much as possible about that part of Colorado, I left the party next morning and started for Hermosa Creek. Finding a well-worn deer trail, I followed that. It led me to a portion of the creek which proved to have a bad crossing. The banks were steep and the water deep. My horse got down, and so did I.
That night, tired, wet and hungry, the first Pres- byterian minister-and so far as I know the first
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minister-rode into the little place called Animas City, near where the flourishing town of Durango now stands.
After a night's rest and a warm breakfast I con- cluded, before visiting the people, to try to find someone who would either shave me or loan me a razor. Among the log cabins was one larger than the others, with the familiar sign over the door, "Saloon." As I drew near that public place of various kinds of business, I asked a man if he knew where I could get shaved. "Yes," said he, "you can get shaved in a little room in the back end of that saloon." I walked in and on through to the little room and, sure enough, there was an intended barber's chair-a box upon a box, with a board nailed to it at about the right slant for a barber's chair. In front of this fix-up was a glass, some bottles, and a few razors. The room was chiefly used for another purpose.
Four men were playing "poker." The room being about eight by ten feet, we were a little crowded for space; but that was the least of my troubles. When I looked at the man who did the shaving I confess that, if the four better-looking men who were gambling had not been in the room, he would not have shaved me. If whisky ever
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blossomed in full, it was on that man's face. He apologized for his looks by saying that he was "just recovering from a very severe attack of erysipelas." Did it not sound harsh, I should say, from a very severe spell of the "jimjams." His razor was dull and his hand quite unsteady. Finally he finished a twenty-five cent job of scraping. I paid the bill, told the crowd there would be preaching somewhere in town that evening, invited all to come and walked out. That night I preached to a fair-sized audience and secured signers to a petition for a church organization.
By referring to my "Pastor's Register," I see that my text was Ephesians 2: 8; subject, "Grace"; date, July 10, 1877. When I think of that trip as I write this chapter, it seems to me the subject should have been "Grace and Grit."
The next day I bought a beautiful "red-tanned" black-tail deer skin from a Navajo Indian for one dollar. The skin made me a pair of fine leggings.
When I reached home after my first trip into the Animas country, having ridden nearly two hundred miles over as rough trails as ever I saw, I was tired; but home missionaries in those days, who preached on the frontier, had to "tire and tire again."
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CHAPTER X
"HELL'S ACRE"
"The whole universe of God will crumble to pieces before God will overlook or despise one single tear of genuine repent- ance."
-Judge Mc Williams.
"I want to keep alive my head in my heart." -Doddridge.
From what has been written regarding mining- camps many have concluded that, in the early days of a "live camp," when the first great rush is made and the excitement over reported "rich strikes" and "strikes" that are "rich" runs high, the majority of men who go to such camps and are carried away by the fever are rough characters. This is not the case. The majority are intelligent, enterprising and plucky; many are cultured, "trav- eled men," who have seen much of life and are in the habit of doing their own thinking.
Mr. Josiah Copley, after visiting several of the mountain towns in southwestern Colorado, wrote the "Presbyterian Banner": "I have found in those towns much intellectual force and bold iniquity." From this we see the impression made on the mind
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of an intelligent man like Mr. Copley, whose home for more than fifty years had been in Pittsburg, Pa.
True, there are many "hard cases" in our mining- camps; and while in the San Juan I was often reminded of what a Dutchman said to one of them: "You get off from mine house, or you give dis name a bad blace." In Lake City that class lived near Henson Creek. This part of the camp was well named "Hell's Acre," for the first part of the name was about all that was ever raised on that acre.
There was always a sad thought in my mind con- nected with this portion of our camp; i. e., that so many young men who had been well trained in east- ern homes would visit the dance-halls to see some- thing of "wild life" in a frontier mining-camp during its palmy days. One Sabbath night, after preaching, I went to my little shanty, eight by ten feet on the outside-one side six feet high, the other eight, with the fireplace built outside that I might have more room on the inside ; my bed being made of "Colorado feathers" (shavings),-when, to my astonishment, I found that the shanty had been broken into. A shirt, a coat and a valise that had been left in my care, containing valuable mining papers and family pictures, had been stolen. I was surprised that any one would dare to steal in a new mining-camp, for
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" HELL'S ACRE "
the culprit, if caught, would most likely receive such punishment that no more would be needed in this world.
The one thing to do was to try to recover the stolen goods, especially what had been left with me for safe-keeping. I first placed in my pocket what a colored pastor rebuked a member of his church for carrying and received the following answer: "Don't the Scriptures say, 'Be ye always ready'?" Then I went to "Larry" Dolan's gambling-hall and found the officer I preferred to help me find the thief. From there we went through the halls of like char- acter; then started for "Hell's Acre." In the first large dance-hall we entered I saw a number of young men dancing who had been in my congrega- tion not more than two hours before. In the last hall we entered a woman known in camp by a name that would hardly sound euphonious, told me that a "carpet bagger" had just left the hall with a coat over his arm and a valise in his hand. As the officer and myself stepped out of the door one of the bar-tenders shot a man in the neck. We failed to find the thief, but the next day the valise and papers were discovered.
Often during those years I was reminded of the truths taught in the seventh chapter of Proverbs:
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"Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death." Many young men from good homes in the East seemed to forget, or at least neglect, the instructions given them when they left the fireside.
A PICTURE
At first, letters were written to loved ones "back home." They were filled with descriptions of what the young man saw and, underneath it all, in lines that were plain, the mother thought that she discov- ered a desire in her boy to return home, and said: "He is homesick." But months pass, and in our imagination we look into that old home nestling among the eastern hills, for we are anxious to learn what the mother now thinks of her boy. She says that of late he has not written so often as he did at first; his letters are much shorter; he complains of being so busy. The tears of sorrow that very many sons are daily bringing to mothers' eyes are not seen; still the pale, careworn look and the heart- sickening smile that is forced to that worried mother's face, tell plainly the thoughts that are in her mind and the struggle that is going on in her heart; and what is still plainer, her words, not of regret, but of what borders on joy (while speaking of a son she buried ere the flush of manhood
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"HELL'S ACRE "
mantled his cheeks), tell the sad tale of a wander- ing boy. .
To leave that home and go where we can get a sight of that young man who is breaking his mother's heart; to learn what he is doing, and how he looks, is a task that can be accomplished by visiting any "live" mining-camp. How many young men, and men that are in middle life, drink that which poisons, intoxicates and ruins! They turn their feet toward her house, whose feet the wise man said "take told on hell."
Of the two sorrows that can come to the heart of a mother, the death of a son, or the going away of a son into the paths of sin and folly, the latter is by far the hardest to bear. A profligate son is a much heavier burden than a dead son. One can be buried, and if he has been a true son, his memory will be cherished. But if a son is a living sorrow, oh! how intense the anguish of a mother's heart as she follows him by prayers through the sinks of iniquity! One of the most touching lines I ever read was published in a paper at the request of a heart-broken mother-short, but oh! the depths of love it contained:
"Willie, come home."
May God help the young men who read this book to
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live such pure lives that no one will have just cause to feel ashamed of them.
While there is nothing more shocking to behold than the wreck of a dissolute man (unless it be that of a dissolute woman), yet no Christian has a right to shun a prodigal when the wanderer is looking for a kind word or a helping hand. While he is in a deplorable condition, our prayers should ascend for the salvation of the perishing.
"I saw a vessel which the waves did spare, Lie sadly stranded on a sandy beach Beyond the tide's kind reach; Within its murmur of lamenting speech Long lay she there; Until at length
A mighty sea arose in all its strength, And launched her lovingly, And thus, alas! our race
Lay stranded on the beach of human sin And misery, Beyond all help, until God's
Gracious grace-
A mighty tide All crimson dyed-
Swept grandly in
And set us free."
It matters not how high upon the shore the young man's frail bark may have been cast by the waves
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of temptation ; if it be not broken in pieces, it is our duty to try to launch it lovingly once more on the sea of life and, by giving him good advice and a helping hand, induce him to steer his shattered craft by the compass of true manhood, virtue and godli- ness, bidding him look to God, who "knoweth our frame" and "remembereth that we are dust"; to Him who knoweth the many temptations to which young men are subject.
"There's a fulness in God's mercy Like the fulness of the sea; There's a kindness in his justice, Which is more than liberty.
"There's no place where earthly sorrows Are more felt than up in Heaven; There's no place where earthly failings Have such kindly judgment given."
Young men lead fast lives-then write letters home, believing they can convince their parents that they are living aright. But they are mistaken. For Satan writes a legible hand and he writes between the lines of their letters. Young men, remember that each day you are sowing seed that will bear fruit, and, "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap."
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CHAPTER XI
KILLED BY A SNOW-SLIDE
"The story of human life, with its lights and shadows, its strength and weakness, will be an interesting story so long as the human race shall endure." -Henry Vincent.
My "Pastor's Register" reveals a hard roll: "George Elwood, saloon-keeper, killed;" "Luther Ray, murdered in a gambling-hall;" "Charles C. Curtis, killed by a snow-slide while in his cabin;" "Alfred Shepherd, died from exposure in storm;" "Harry Pierce, killed by a premature blast in the Ula mine;" "John Furgerson, killed by a land- slide;" and so it reads until I come to "Jackson Gregory and Newton N. Lytle, killed by a snow- slide near the old 'Dolly Varden Trail,' on Engineer Mountain."
To show the spirit that prevailed among men during the early days of the "Great San Juan Excitement," I will describe the way in which they acted. As soon as news reached camp that Jackson Gregory and Newton N. Lytle had been buried in a snow-slide, there was no lack of volunteers who offered to dig them out. Whenever a man volun- teered his services for this kind of work he knew
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BRINGING INTO CAMP THE BODIES OF TWO MEN WHO WERE KILLED BY A SNOW SLIDE.
RIVER SIDE SNOW TUNNEL, NEAR OURAY, COLO. 450 FT. LONG IN MID-SUMMER.
(This is the celebrated Mears Toll Road. The slide came down in the Winter and an immense Tunnel. 450 ft. long, large enough for six horse stage, was dug through it. The snow did not melt all Summer. This is the end of the Tunnel nearest Ouray. )
KILLED BY A SNOW-SLIDE
what it meant; for in a snow-slide region one avalanche is likely to start another. The proof of this statement was given while the men were work- ing to get the bodies. Shortly after they com- menced, a much larger snow-slide, coming from a greater height, was heard thundering and crashing down the mountain-side near the track of the previous one. Every cheek blanched, and every heart beat fast as the slide came with almost light- ning speed down from its lofty bed-and had it not struck a spur of the mountain that changed its course, the number of bodies would have increased from two to thirty-two, which the next set of volunteers would have ventured to uncover.
Mr. Gregory was not covered more than eighteen inches; his right arm was above his head, and his face toward the mountain; but having been carried so far, the snow was tightly packed, and death by suffocation must have soon followed. Mr. Lytle was covered by four or five feet of snow; neither body was bruised.
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