cific. With the last spike driven in that road, the Salt Lake Trail followed the Santa Fé out of existence.
Buffalo Bill tells many of his own adventures as a scout for the United States Army, and anecdotes of the many officers he met in that capacity.
WHERE AN EMIGRANT TRAIN HAD PASSED.
Another wonderful story is that of the creation of the Overland Stage Route. The coaches were huge, swinging affairs, drawn by six horses or mules, the finest to be had, and these were usually driven at a gallop over the rough trails and breakneck descents. They went as fast as a hundred miles a day, the horses being changed every ten miles at the roadside houses. The drivers of these stages were men of character and of a dare-devil bravery. Adventure was the order of the day, and not a driver among them but had his score and more to relate. Hold-ups were common, for the stages went almost as heavily loaded with gold as with passengers, on many of their trips. What rides they must have been! The towering mountains, the wild cañion road between the pine-covered slopes, the beautiful horses going at full tilt, with the heavy coach swaying behind them, its little group of travelers on top, the driver swinging his long whip, the conductor, who was responsible for the mail, looking out, gun in hand—then, suddenly, two or three mounted desperadoes barring the route!
Many a rough joke these wild men played, and many a harrowing deed is recorded of them and of their enemies. Many a foolhardy risk they took, and many an act of gentleness and kindness is “chalked up” to them. They were much like children, simple and natural, taking things as they came, and loving adventure like boys. The life they lived has no place in our civilization, but it was fine and manly for all its faults. Without men of their caliber we should scarcely have subdued the West, turning the wilderness into the granary of the world, and opening the golden mountains for their wealth. Thanks to them, peace has come now, and the wild miles are sweet and smiling.
If you want a true notion of how America grew to be what she is, and desire to see at first-hand the men, or some of them, who had a hand in this growth, you cannot do better than read these two books. As for interest and excitement, you won’t fail to find plenty. But the fact that the stories are thrilling does not make them the less true, which is one of the comforts of life. It is history—but it is adventure too! It is as valuable as it is thrilling. The settling of the West had many phases, but here we get the beginning of them all, “that first fine, careless rapture” we never can recapture, and which belongs to youth, to first times, and the beginnings of things, and is usually lost in what follows.
Perhaps, while you read in the dark November evenings, the wind will shriek in the windows, rattling the blinds, until it seems to you that you hear the war-cry of the Sioux and the clatter of horses’ feet. Snuggle down more closely by the fire, and turn the pages. It is only fancy now—but fifty years ago...!
