Pueblo has likewise its business-men, its men of to-day, who manage its banks, who buy and sell and get gain as they might do in any well-ordered city, though, truth to tell, there are very few of them who do not sooner or later catch the prevailing infection—­a part of whose assets is not represented by some “prospect” away up in the mountains or frisking about the Plains in herds of cattle and sheep.  But perhaps the most curiously-original character in all the town is Judge Allen A. Bradford, of whose wonderful memory the following good story is told:  Years ago he, with a party of officers, was at the house of Colonel Boone, down the river.  While engaged in playing “pitch-trump,” of which the judge was very fond—­and in fact the only game of cards with which he was acquainted—­a messenger rushed in announcing that a lady had fallen from her horse and was doubtless much injured.  The players left their cards and ran to render assistance, and the game thus broken up was not resumed.  Some two years later the same parties found themselves together again, and “pitch-trump” was proposed.  To the astonishment of all, the judge informed them how the score stood when they had so hurriedly left the game, and with the utmost gravity insisted that it be continued from that point!

On a bright sunny morning we sought out the judge’s office, only to learn that he had not yet for the day exchanged the pleasures of rural life across the Fontaine for less romantic devotions at the shrine of the stern goddess.  Later we were informed, upon what seemed credible authority, that upon the morning in question he was intending to sow oats.  Though cold March still claimed the calendar, and hence such action on the part of the judge might seem like forcing the season, yet reflections upon his advanced years caused us to suppress the rising thought that perhaps some allusions to wild oats might have been intended.  Hence we looked forward to a rare treat—­judicial dignity unbending itself in pastoral pursuits, as in the case of some Roman magistrate.  “A little better’n a mile” was the answer to our interrogatory as to how far the judge’s ranch might be from town; but having upon many former occasions taken the dimensions of a Colorado mile, we declined the suggestion to walk and sought some mode of conveyance.  There chanced to be one right at hand, standing patiently by the wayside and presided over by an ancient colored gentleman.  The coach had been a fine one in its day, but that was long since past, and now its dashboard, bent out at an angle of forty-five degrees, the faded trimmings and the rusty, stately occupant of the box formed a complete and harmonious picture of past grandeur seldom seen in the Far West.  Two dubious-looking bronchos, a bay and a white, completed this unique equipage, in which we climbed the mesa and then descended into the valley of the Fontaine.  The sable driver was disposed to be communicative, and ventured various opinions upon current topics.  He had been through the war, and came West fourteen years ago.