barn with the certainty of a homing pigeon.
And how my temper blazed when I saw a horse slowly approaching the end of the trail, head drooping low, flanks dripping foam, for I knew what it meant—a miner in a hurry!
We had several favorite horses. Chief, a gentle handsome chestnut with lighter tail and mane, somewhat heavy and not so fast but reliable, a woman’s horse, and safe for beginners, could always be depended on to take his rider smoothly and safely anywhere; Fanny, more slender though not as handsome as Chief, a mottled, reliable roan; Bird, slender and spirited, ready to jump at anything but as comfortable to ride as a rocking chair. Poor Bird, strained by drunken riders who unsparingly ran him up miles of steep slopes, a bundle of nerves, never permitting another horse to pass, running as if to avoid the lash. And King, tallest of them all, a raw-boned rangy horse able to cover ground in long strides.
Horses were used to haul heavy machinery, lumber, and mine timbers on sleds in winter and wagons in summer, usually six to a team. Frequently in winter it took three days to cover the five and a half miles from Telluride with horses and men laboring through the daylight hours to break through drifts on the way to the mine. A rate of a mile and two thirds a day!
Our method of moving.
Only by horses were we able to go up or down the mountains, but the daily existence of those on the hill depended upon mules.
The pitiful patient mule! Fury still burns within me when I recall the cruelty and abuse that animal endured. An interesting book, Early Western Travels, 1778 to 1846, edited by Rueben G. Thwaites, gives a short account and pleasant tribute to that long-suffering animal: “At that date the mule traveled hundreds of miles, carrying unwieldy burdens weighing three or four hundred pounds. Due to exposure and lack of care, the mules often suffered from swollen legs and feet and then, unable to go farther, were beaten and dragged and if still unable to move were left by the trail to die.”
In 1906, in the San Juans, the mule had some care, to be sure. His day was one of regular hours. He traveled a beaten trail. He was well fed. But with all that his condition was not much better than the author described in Early Western Travels.
All freight for the Tomboy was sent to sheds in Telluride. Freight included everything used in the mines, mills, boardinghouses, and shacks: bedding, towels, shoes, potatoes, sugar, beef, pipes, shovels, tools, blasting powder, and lagging. Led by a skinner on horseback, fifteen big raw-boned mules formed a string. Each skinner loaded his own string, weight, balance, and security being the paramount necessities. A large pad afforded some protection although too often the mules’ backs were chafed and bleeding. Over the pad a wooden cross-saddle was held securely by a cinch around the mule’s belly so tightly drawn by a ladigo that the belly was often compressed many inches and the animal shaken to his very hooves, causing great discomfort. Yet, this was necessary to prevent the heavy pack from slipping which caused more chaffing and could be very dangerous. A side load was lifted into place and firmly secured by a rope deftly thrown and tied. The mule sagged lopsidedly until counterbalanced by a load on the other side roped securely by a flip of the skinner’s hand. The third load was thrown on the back, and ropes crossing from side to side lashed everything together.
The most unwieldy burdens were large crates and boxes. The total weight could not exceed three hundred pounds but bulk made the load difficult. A still more awkward load was lagging, often twelve feet long, lashed on both sides, reaching high above the mule’s back, the ends dragging beyond his heels.
From our peak I could often spy a string of tiny specks, like ants coming out of the tunnel, black against the snow, disappearing in the Big Bend of the mountainside to reappear later, larger, nearer and higher.
No less rugged was the skinner, bent low over his saddle. His face was almost hidden under the wide, turned-down brim of his slouch hat.
Rhythmically he slapped his long arms against his sides to ease the numbness from a mountain blizzard. His body was a shapeless hulk under layers of heavy shirts and jackets. Long gauntlets and heavy boots were fur-lined protection from frostbite. Sheepskin chaps, leather-fringed from ankle to waist, were held in place by a wide, metal-studded belt. For emergencies an iron shovel was strapped to one mule and a long, heavy coiled rope was looped around the saddle of his horse.
Passing a string of mules a rider always took the inside of the trail, and in winter, when snow narrowed the path, he threw both legs over the saddle toward the bank lest they be crushed by a packload rubbing against them.
The load of an entire string might be destined for the mill, or storehouse, at the mouth of the Cincinnati Tunnel, or to the boardinghouse. In winter the strings could seldom get up to the “Upper Workings.” Sometimes one mule was loaded with small orders for different families, a cause of annoyance and delay because often an entire load must be removed to find a single package. If it was possible to reach a cabin the skinner would detach and lead a mule from the string. But more often in winter the orders were dumped in the snow along the trail and we had to tramp down the snow or dig into it groping around to find our packages.
While the skinner made the deliveries the mules enjoyed a short, well-earned rest. Unloading was done as skillfully as loading. A twist of the rope released the top pack. The side loads were removed and the mule rose up like a ship lightered of cargo. The skinner’s horse knew instinctively when to step forward to advance the string for unloading the next in line.
Immediately after the string was unloaded it was reloaded with three one-hundred-pound sacks of mill concentrates destined for the railroad station in Telluride for shipment to smelters. The afternoon trip then started. At day’s end, often seven in the evening, the mules had covered more than twenty miles, ten of exhausting ascent. During storms it took all day for one round trip. At times the skinners gave up partway up the trail and returned to Telluride with their loads.
The mules! Large, gentle, patient pictures of dejection, trudging along, heads sagging, ears flapping to shake out the needle-sharp particles of ice driven in by howling winds. Packs cutting deep into their backs and irritating large running sores, forelegs and ankles swollen with rheumatism to twice normal size! Through four long winters I shuddered with indignation and pity at sight of their suffering.
“Stubborn as a mule” is a phrase of meaning to a skinner. Day after day the mules plodded through their unbroken routine, but if one fell—it was a different story. Urged by the skinner, he might try to get up, sometimes succeeding but mostly not. If he failed, the skinner had to unload him. If one mule fell, the entire string was knotted. The short, connecting rope jerked the mules in front and the fallen one behind, and the others restlessly twisted this way and that until finally there was an entangled mess of mules falling like tenpins. Quite often one rebel would lie down deliberately while the skinner wrestled with another.
But stubborn as mules are, my anger leaped to white heat whenever I saw how an obstinate or possibly helpless mule was sometimes mistreated. Then came the measure of the skinner’s temper, brutality, and his command of profanity. At first he might coax, then he swore. “Swearing like a mule skinner” in the mining world means the most vehement, vile, profane, and obscene maledictions invented. When strong language brought no response from the mule, often stuck deep in the snow, the skinner kicked him with his heavy boots or lashed him brutally with a strap. The mule might lunge feebly, and settle down again calmly, perversely. Then the enraged skinner resorted to the iron shovel—banging it on the animal’s head.
Though I had been warned that it only infuriated a skinner to berate him, I often rushed through the snow and in my kind of violent but less evil anger called down vengeance on his head! Pausing only to cast a withering look at me, he would turn back and the deadly “thud,
