Many strange things were done in the olden time.  When the Plains Indians had gathered together their forces for the purpose of persistently harassing the settlement, the Mountain Utes, then the allies of the whites, offered their services to help repel the common enemy.  Petitions went up to the governor and Legislature to accept the proffered services, but they were steadily refused.  Our long-headed judge gives the reason:  The administration was under the control of men who were feeding Uncle Sam’s troops with corn at thirteen cents per pound, and other staples in proportion, and the Indian volunteers promised a too speedy ending of such a profitable warfare.

Thus eventfully has passed the life of Judge Bradford.  During his threescore-and-five years he has moved almost across a continent, never content unless he was on the frontier.  Long may he live to ride in his light coverless wagon in the smile of bright Colorado sunshine, honored by all who know him, and affording his friends the enjoyment of his rare good presence!

[Illustration:  Old adobe fort.]

Thirty years ago this whole Rocky-Mountain region, now appropriated by an enterprising and progressive people, contained, besides the native Indians and the Mexicans in the south, only a few trappers and frontier traders, most of them in the employ of the American Fur Company.  These were the fearless and intrepid pioneers who so far from fleeing danger seemed rather to court it.  Accounts of their adventures—­now a struggle with a wounded bear, again the threatened perils of starvation when lost in some mountain-fastness—­have long simultaneously terrified and fascinated both young and old.  We all have pictured their dress—­the coat or cloak, often an odd combination of several varieties of skins pieced together, with fur side in; breeches sometimes of the same material, but oftener of coarse duck or corduroy; and the slouched hat, under whose broad brim whatever of the face that was not concealed by a shaggy, unkempt beard shone out red from exposure to sun and weather.  The American Fur Company had dotted the country with forts, which served the double purpose of storehouses for the valuables collected and of places where the employes could barricade themselves against the too-often troublesome savages.  For such a purpose, though not actually by the Fur Company, was built the old adobe fort the ruins of which are still to be seen on the banks of the Arkansas at Pueblo.  How old it may have been no one seems to know, but certain it is that for long years, and in the earliest times, it was a favorite rendezvous.  Here was always to be found a jolly good party to pass away the long winter evenings with song and story.  Here Kit Carson often stopped to rest from his many perilous expeditions, enjoying, together with Fremont and other noted Rocky-Mountain explorers, the hospitalities of the old fort.  Many times were its soft walls indented by the arrows of besieging Indians, but its bloodiest tragedy was enacted in 1854, when the Utes surprised the sleeping company and savagely massacred all.