is mutton,” said Mr. McAdams. Spotting me as a newcomer he asked my name.
“Miss Fish,” I stated glibly and in quick confusion changed it to “Mrs. Backus.” At his knowing smile I felt my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, turned and promptly left his store. At Kracow’s I bought what seemed adequate supplies for a few days.
It was still early so I walked on to view Telluride and its surroundings. The streets appeared strangely deserted and silent. Then I saw a hearse approaching slowly followed by two lines of men marching sedately. A funeral, undoubtedly of a prominent member of the community. At store fronts the proprietors stood watching as the cortege wound its solemn way to the small cemetery on the hillside. Thus the men of Telluride paid homage and said farewell to the leading madam of their underworld, in her way the town’s best known citizen.
I continued my walk toward the end of town, half a mile away. The road ran past the mill of the Liberty Bell Mine and a short distance farther to the Smuggler Union, then the little settlement of Pandora where it abruptly ended at the back wall of the canyon.
Partway up the slope, sturdy pines and firs stood proudly in spite of their precarious root-hold in crevices of rock.
Above Pandora, in a rift between the peaks, the deep snows fed a ribbon of icy cold water which, falling to a rocky ledge, leaped headlong into the cascade of Bridal Veil Falls. Now the bordering trees, sprayed by wind-carried mists, were shrouded with tiny glittering icicles while high above soared the majestic spires of Mt. Telluride and Mt. Ajax, magnificent and austere.
The waters of Bridal Veil and nearby Ingram Falls fed the San Miguel River flowing through the gorge it had grooved past Telluride and the plateau to the west, an area containing vanadium ore—rich in radium.
On the trail approaching Smuggler Union Mine.
So high were the walls on the three sides of the valley and so narrow the floor between them that in winter the sunlight reached the little town only a few hours of the day. By mid-afternoon the purple shadows of cliffs dropped a pall over the rugged settlement. Its citizens included respectable miners and their wives, as well as the lawless ne’er-do-wells and their ilk. Near the main street huddled the houses of prostitutes. All night carousing in the saloons and gambling dens was evident from the raucous shouting and cursing. Telluride was only shortly past its wildest days.
Two years previous terror had reigned. Unruly mobs had gathered and rumors had spread that the miners on strike threatened to poison the water supply and blow up the town. A bomb had been thrown at the home of Buckley Wells, manager of the Smuggler. Fortunately, being wrapped in furs and sleeping on his porch, he escaped with no worse injuries than a ruptured ear drum. Although the town seemed quiet now, there remained an uneasy feeling of watchful waiting for further violence. I returned, this morning, to the hotel as though I had been on an exploring trip.
CHAPTER 2
“The sled will be here at ten o’clock,” George informed me. “Wear your warmest clothes. It’s a long, cold ride. And let’s eat again because we may not reach the mine until late afternoon.”
Bundled in a dark-blue wool dress with red piping on the collar and cuffs, a full ankle-length skirt, two petticoats and tights to keep my legs warm underneath, fleece-lined gloves, a soft, black sealskin cap with earflaps, surely I would never feel cold. George was equally bundled in his woolens, and under his hat a stocking cap covered his ears.
It was snowing when the sled arrived. Bill Langley, the driver for Rodgers Brothers’ Stable, tall and rugged, looking huge in a long, heavy mackinaw, greeted us.
“Good mornin’, folks. Sure hope you’re dressed warm. Ever been in the mount’ns before?”
“I haven’t,” I said, “and I’m overwhelmed by the grandeur.”
“Wonderful country, this here,” he agreed and tucked a heavy fur robe around George and me as we snuggled close together in the back seat of the sled. Wrapping himself in a fur robe, Bill gathered the reins, slapped the horses on the rump and soon I was to enjoy my first sleigh ride.
We turned off the main road at an easy trot and glided straight toward the foot of the mountain only a few hundred yards distant. The road clung to the rock wall, zigzagging back and forth around ravines and overhanging rocks. I grew tense. The horses slowed to a walk as the increasing altitude made breathing more difficult. Steeper and ever steeper we ascended, and deeper plunged the gorge beside us. An occasional glimpse was all I dared take. Only a few inches separated the sled from the menacing drop below. I kept my gaze on the peaks beyond the canyon and the wall of rock we skirted within arm’s length. George explained the clicketyclack that we heard was the sound of ore-laden buckets passing over supports on the tram towers that carried the cables.
The Tomboy in the basin with twenty feet of perpetual snow on the peaks.
Biting cold began to penetrate our wrappings. My toes and fingers were getting stiff, and there was a long pull ahead with no turning back.
“We’re near’n a spring where I water the horses,” Bill drawled. The poor things were panting, their nostrils puffing in and out like a bellows. As if understanding that word “water,” the animals swung the sled so sharply that it grazed the edge of the abyss. In the bend of a hairpin turn they stopped, aware that this was their last chance for a drink on the long pull. The road was covered with ice as was the spring.
Unfastening an axe from the side of the sled, Bill cautiously inched his way across the sheeted ice and began chopping the mouth of the spring.
“This is the most treacherous spot on the road,” he told us, “ ’cause ye see, when ya get down to the water there, some of it always spills over and freezes. Gets mighty slippery for the horses.”
With their heads lowered, the jaded animals patiently waited for their refreshing drink. When again we were moving, I clutched George’s hand tightly for reassurance.
“We’ll soon be at the tunnel,” Bill assured us. He knew intimately every quirk of every bend along this ledge that had been hacked from the mountain walls. Just where it jutted out on a shelf overhanging the canyon, we swerved into a tunnel, cut through solid rock. It was a curved archway, thirty feet long, barely high enough to miss the heads of the horses or loaded pack mules.
As we emerged, the awesome grandeur burst full force upon us and almost took my precious breath away. Far across the gulch, the jagged heads of giants pierced the leaden sky. Pointing with his whip toward the mighty pinnacles, Bill asked, “Ma’am, can ya see that basin a little ways down the slope of the farthest peak, up high there, near the top? Well, there’s a little settlement there where you’re goin’ to live.”
George let Bill do the talking because this was his home. These were his beloved mountains and pride in them glowed in his eyes and warmed his voice. More traveled men than Bill Langley had been spellbound by their magnificence. H. H. Bancroft, great historian of the West, had written in the phrases of yesteryear about the spell cast by mountains upon nature lovers.
“Nothing interests many of us like the mountains which will always draw men from the ends of the earth that they may climb as near to Heaven as may be, by their rocky stairs.” Of these San Juans he wrote, “It is the wildest and most inaccessible region in Colorado, if not in North
