packed in one of those old prairie schooners, drawn by slow, patient oxen.  I’ve heard him tell of the time gold was discovered in Cripple Creek.  Cripple Creek was just a part of the great wilderness, and was only accessible by a series of uncertain trails.  Yes, gold is a precious metal, to be sure; but it is magical, too, for no sooner is it discovered than a wave of industry is created.  Upon a bleak and barren spot a city is built in a week—­a miracle of human energy.  The Midland Railroad kept great gangs of men working day and night, in order to connect that great gold field with the outer world.  Before long there was a tremendous demand for a common wagon road ‘to civilization,’ as they put it; and this very road that we are walking on came into being—­an outlet, if you please—­for some of that wonderful, teeming, bubbling life and industry created by the mere discovery of gold.

“Soon this very road became the most important highway in the State.  Great wagon loads of food and tools went up, and bags of precious ore came back.  Stores were opened, schools were built, churches erected, and homes founded.  Civilization had found another desolate mountain wilderness, and with her magic wand added it to her ever-widening domain—­all because some one had discovered gold.

“Then came the first stage-coach.  Daddy has often told me all about it.  A great, cumbersome affair, rolling and pitching on its leathers as it came lunging and bumping along the rough, stony, mountain road.  The driver was seated high above the dashboard, nearly buried in boxes, bags, and bundles, while the baggage till behind resembled a railroad truck piled high with every kind and description of trunks.  As it came to a sudden stop in front of the little postoffice, its great, swinging side-doors opened and the passengers scrambled out, each one handing the jovial and loquacious driver a five-dollar note.

“Soon it took four stages to satisfy the demand, one going each way night and morning.  It was at this stage of the game that Daddy built the famous Road House.  Here the horses were relayed, and here the passengers stepped out to stretch their cramped limbs or, perhaps, to drink at Dad’s spring.  Sometimes, on stormy nights, both stages, the one going up and the one coming down, would be tied up for the night at Dad’s.  Then such times as there would be in that old log house!  Prospectors from every gold camp on earth, promoters and mining brokers, surveyors and engineers, old-timers and tenderfeet—­all brought together by one single impulse—­the craze for gold.

“Many were the mining claims that passed over the poker table there; many were the conspiracies that were talked over and determined upon.  Many were the stories of the old Sante Fe trail and of the Pony Express, or perhaps strange tales of Kit Carson as he roamed the great Westland from Texas to Wyoming, trapping for fur and killing every treacherous Indian that crossed his trail.  You know Old Ben at Bruin Inn was for many years a stage driver for Dad on this very road, and he is chuck full of stories.”