The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 14, 1903, Page 11

THE SUNDAY' CALL 11 ZEast t P T84S 1s tue third article in a I remarkable series of papers by © George Wharton James, the famous traveler and expiorer, who traversed the full length of the Col- ado River in a small boat for the especial purpose of probing its mys- ies thoroughly, and who, under 1 title of “From Needles to the gen Yuma in a Boat,” has written ex- c ively for the Sunday Call this teresting serial, deseribing in his nating way just what he discov- ered and what strange and all-ab- g adventures befell him on the p In these articles Mr. James the grandeur and the ger of the Colorado River as it never been shown before. And ¢ he has lived more than half fe among the Indians of Amer- the especial purpose of learn- ng their habits, their traditions and their inner life as no one else has learned it, it is not difficult to ealize that he speaks with author- n fine comprehension of the people he visited along the course of this wondrous waterway. This series is therefore one of the luable contributions to the of the great Southwest that It is a scientific gs out eve as ever been made. of rare value. Sunday the fourth article - A . I 1 given ma Gila City and Arizona City, La rey Landing r whic ed to be - ave was to ca mineral hid- B forbidding sur- k hostile In s f whom were braved his patient o b determined to wrest " ts golder What a f - d sorrow, of ly an- suish, © rr h under torture and ¢ ‘ ts particulars. But . . tten, never « e as 1o eye but the Al & One, » silent and pitiless stars, ever waw horrors perpetrated upon the ad- s white men bysthelr crafty and nee, when I left the camp of huevis I took with me Wiii.am f-breed, so that he could heip a s Parker, the nam 1 1o g for the Mohave In As we s wed alopg Eddy called my atter w cindery hill on the left in the ¢ s a prospector, with his X cam d camped on that hill. He was wear 1 tired, for he had walked s that da after taking the ¥ om his burro, he hobbled him ed him loose and then sat down before getting supper. He was so tired th was dark before he knew it. While a Chemehuevi sneaked up m. Eddy he went h the rospectors frerings r anything casy never knew said the story was up and down the Indians. r the pelf and woes in th No ordinar. an more than faintly h a life means. Where shall the must first of all de- of on the, earth future your lot y-bred conceive will be made pr ctor go? He p important question. This de- ¢ he goes to the nearest outfitting All love for his fellows he must If he has wife and family, kindred js, he must either say them o 0od-by!” or leave them in douot whereabouts. He purchases a 'hen he “outfits.” Flour, bacon, @offce, sugar, beans, dried fruit, baking powder are the staples. Weight must be considered Luxuries are out of the tion, and what peopie ordinarily con- r necessities must be *“‘pared down” the smallest possible weight and bulk. ing pan, coffee pot, water canteen, gold pan, with one or two blan- kets, complete all his burro can carry. One of the blankets goes under the pack saddle and the pack is carefully fastenel here must be equal load on either . and it must be so placed that ther will be no rubbing to lame the back of the animal, upon whose strength and will- pick a Y ool t— ‘ > Zor ORW, A NOTED REGIOMN~N ’ S " \/\;.X—R\_Zg\pgc‘roas > depends. With canvas ng pack the diamond hitch thrown—the ir of the tenderfoc and with frying pan, coffee pot and 5o pan either tied on the top of the pack, or swung loosely i gunnysack affixed to the , the sturdy adventurer turns his back upon civilization, upon luxury, upor association with his fellows, upon books, and a knowledge of curren s to live a life of solitud=, »r and often death. His r be alert, for he mus® keep near to water. He must go where his burro can find some 1t picking, for. th a prospector’s burro can lhve where at would starve to death, he must som ewithal for his wher to d .upon tn alone in the of getting ¢ redible ha stom: around i til the end ateful watch teeth. and circle, u for his this tard and rocky and and burning sands into tae blirning canyons, and over. the Wherever he of mineral he a and examines with his little mi- Crosc or tests with the few chemica he has in his pockets.. When night com he the ack from his jaded and rro’s back, hobbles him and turns him loc then opens up his sta His gold pa n t serve him a a bread pan, or he must mix up his dough—as 1 have often done—in ur at the top of his flour sack. A few dried tus lants, or arrow weeds, or greasewood, or sagebrush, afford him a fire, and there he tosses his flapjacks, using the grease from the bacon he has fried to keep them from sticking. Then at it he goes. He has worked hard since early morning long before sunup—ana it wasn’t’ worth while stopping for lunch. so he is hungry, and flapjacks and bacon and bacon grease. with milkless coffee, are good, and if he wants dessert he just adds a little sugar to the piece of flapjack that is left over, and eats it with a relish. Once in a while, perhaps on Sundays—though he is never quite sure which is Sunday, after he has been a few days from town—he stops long enough to cook a mess of dried fruit, using the coffee pot as a stew pan, or he puts it on at night, carefully propped up on three stones over the fi and with plenty of water to it, so that it will not all cook away, and lets it sim- mer all night. Then, with a confidence as simple and serene and unknowing as that of a newly-born babe, he spreads out his blankets on the softest rock he can find. takes a chunk of limestone or sand or lava for his pillow, covering .. with his soft felt hat, and with or without a prayer—most likely without—stretches out and for a while dreams, ‘while awake, gazing up at those same. stars that shone on the patriarchs of old as they wan- dered to and fro in the deserts of Asia Minor. And then soft, gentle, dreamless sleep, the sieep of the healthfully weary, falls upon him. Heat nor cold troubles him very much. Tt is generally cool at night and his outdoor life ren- constant ders him impervious to @ tions of temperature, But now and then a sandstorm comes, and then he must look out. The winds blow with the force of a hurricane, but the air is hot, hot, hotter, hottest, and the sand seems to have been scrubbed and rubbed, one particle against another, until it is glowing all through with heat. If it is coarse sand it strikes him with force enough to make pits in his cheek, as if he had had the smallpox. If it is fine he must lie down and cover his head with a blanket, and put a wet rag over his nose and mouth, or he will'suffocate, Though it is desert there are times when the floodgates of heaven are opened and a new deluge strikes this old earth, with no other man to wash away than our lonely prospector. If he is camped in the recesses of a canyon he must in- stanter, regardless of sheets of descending water, climb the steep hillsides to a place of safety, daring the perflous precipices and the lightning. which bores zigzag holes of piercing light through the terri- ble darkness of the night. 1 have sat out 1 ordinary varia- = =\ N WS N several such storms, when old pioneers wrapped their heads up in their blankets and confessed they were afraid—fright- fully scared—scared all through to their very boots. The lightnings were not few and far between, but perfect hemispheres of jagged darts of brilliant violet hue and an intensity that led on to feel it was a special display arranged for the delecta- tion of the powers above. Yet, though I have been speaking of water coming down in floods, a few hours after such a storm one may almost perish for lack of water. The ground Is often impervious and the water runs off in frightful torrents.as fast as it falls. If it is sandy desert it disappears. The thirsty sands swallow it up, and a foot down you can kick up dry dust, though the storm seemed as if it might have soaked through the whole world. And in the dry times what will not a man drink? Oh, you city dwellers, who must have distilled water and Apollinaris and Shasta and iced drinks, think just once of the poor prospector at an alkali pool. Stag- nant, dirty, full of filth, a standing place for animals and fearful night creatures, bitter, salt—yet that is all he can get. It is lukewarm and sickening. And what encourages him through all these trials? He *hopes” to strike it rich, He has what the phrenologist would term a well- developed organ of hope. He is imagina- tive. He sees visions. He dreams dreams. He doesn’t look like an idealist; his hands are horny, his nails untrimmed and black- bordered, his hair and beard are unkempt, and if he ever shaved no one now would know it. His eyes seem ever bent down- ward to the earth, and his lips are as thick and sensuous as his eyes are dull W) o W ) P OSPECTOR M, . ZomA b . Y — & Photographs Copyrighted by | George Wharton Jame: L3 and heavy. Yet he is a dreamer. He can see in these inhospitable, barren plains or these dreary, sandy deserts or these rough and rugged slopes pockets of the precious metals. He can see his pick dis- covering them, and then, in succession, the shaft, the drift, the stope, the bonan- za, the mill, the bricks of precious metal and the hoard at the bank. He sees his wife in silks, satins and diamonds riding in her carrlage drawn by fiery horses driven by liveried coachmen; or himself in an automobile with a French chauf- feur. lackeys innumerable, and a table covered with finest linen set forth with cutglass and silver and loaded with every delicacy the markets afford. Who sits at the head there? Who moves about in this lordly mansion, smoking 25-cent cigars and giv- ing orders with consciousness of power and right? Who saunters into the library to meet distinguished guests or to greet the flower of socléty in the parlor or drawing-room? Tt is he, the dreamer, the prospector, the burro driver, the eater of flapjacks apd bacon, the sleeper under the stars, the shelterless wretch of the storm. A there is an allurement in these dreams that exercises such a power of fascination over minds as renders weak the bewitching enchantment of a Lorelei or the singing of the sirens. Once let a man yield and his course of life is cut out for the whole of his days. Should he strike it rich his dreams will come true. He sees a brownstone front,®with " s 3"’ERQ He sees the Ciark mines of the Verde at Jerome. He remembers the Copper Queen, the Anaconda, the Comstock. But, alas, should he be taken ill! Who is there out in that forsaken place to care for him. He tries his simple remedies, in his extremity tries herbs the Indians have shown him how to use. He is too weak to gather wood, to go for water, to light a fire. He grows weaker day by day. Now and again he faints and the hours fly past and he awakens parched with fever and the deadly glare of the unsympathizing sun. His burro wanders off forgotten, the rats and other vermin come and watch. The timid lizards even approach nearer. The cottontalls look on with great, brown, liquid eyes, and even the dread of the desert, the rattléesnake, comes and Zoils upon his breast, starting with surprise when the yet alive wretch makes some meaningless movement in his pain. The The darkness of night follows the brilliancy of the day. Still he lles, but he moves not. The lizard runs over his face and he makes no stir, the rats gnaw at his flour sack and he hears them not. There is a flapping of wings heard above, and a great black, baldheaded bird with hideous beak and great bleary eyes swoops down upon him and dreams and dreamer are at an end. \ 1 don't know why I have written all the above. 1 didn’t intend to when I sat down and began this article. The scenes are famillar to me and one by one the pic- tures formed themselves in panoramic form before me, and I merely trangeribed what I saw. Perhaps it was the memory of poor, old Peter McGuire that started me off in that direction. Poor old Pete! He is yonder CTRE L =4 RE PROS L WAS MURDERED By cHeEMEHUEN N CTOR INDLAN on the €olorado:: I met him and chatted with him and photographed him for,these Ppages. A gentleman, though a prospector. An educated man, though away from civ- ili3ation for years. Born, I believe, in New York, his eyes lit up when I mentioned that I was to return there speedily to lec- ture. Dried almost to.a skeleton, his facs had that half mummified expression that ngs more te death than lfe, yet his e Was singularly, penetratingly sweet, -low and melancholy. Looked at carefully it was apparent that he was los- ing hif’ eyesight, but at the name, New York; a flash of youth’s fire came into them &and with melancholy pathos he ex- v!flln_f(‘d: “Dear old New York! How I'd like to see it again. I left It in 1867 and I've pever seen it since.- Have been in Arizona” nearly ajl the time. T was 22 years old then. I'm an old man now. Then I was full of life and energy and hope. Now I'm down and old and dis- couraged and one foot is already in the grave and I feel I'm merely tottering on the verge. Ome eye is gone. Five years Ago I felt the cataract growing over it and I can’t see a thing with it now, and the other one is going fast. I can’t see a thing more than 100 yards. I expect it's owing to my being out prospecting so much, peering at the rocks in ‘the sun- shine and then sorting ore. I guess I'm done for!"” I tried to cheer him up, but it was a hopeless task, though he was gentle and evidently touched by my sympathy. “Ah!" said he “no one knows what a terrible life it's'been. Think of it! Away from everything--why. I never saw a bi- cycle until two years ago, when I had to g0 to tha Needles. I've never seen an electric light; never spoken through a telephone. I'm worse than an Indian. I've repented of all my old sins in my solitude here. My only companion is my dog and 1 have him to talk to and pass away the time. Tt would be past bearing if I didn't have him.” ‘When 1 asked about his friends he told me he had a sister, a loving, good sister in Brooklyn. evideritly a woman of ability and position, who for years had been urg- ing him to return. ““But,”’ he suddenly ex- claimed, “I wouldn’t go back broke for anything. She wrote me such urgent let- ters and it seemed so hopeless at last that 1 felt compelled to practice a little decep- tion tpon her. I wrote her she mustn’t expect to hear from me again for some time, as T was going on a journey inland and letters wouldn’t reach me, and since then I've neither written to her nor let her hear from me. I want her to forget me, for I'll never go back unless T strike it and make my pile, and it's too late—I'm too far gone for that now.” Poor Pete, brave Pete, how my heart gces out to you, and I see you there, with your silent, loving-eyed dog by your side, apparently bowed down with your own melancholy, standing by the side of the rude willow and mud hut that for so long has been your “home.” What voiceless agonjes has its walls not witnessed; what destruction of hopes: what sickness of heart over hopes deferred: what dismays at hopes destroyed and blasted! Pointing to the Parren desolation around him, the trees, willows and mesquites, leafless and bare. he said: “Everything around is like me, just now, dead. The cold and frost kills the cottonwood leaves and everything has a wintry look. We have had no rain since last July (it was then February), and that lasted only ten minutes and all ran off the ground as fast as it fell.” Then, as if more cheerful memories brightened up his soul, he ex- claimed with animation: *But you should be here in April and May and June, in- deed, up to the middle of December. ‘Things then are green and beautiful, and as for the heat, I've got until I don't mind {f Poor Pete McGuire. He has lived on *prospects.” He has good prospects, good silver, copper and gold, buf could not and cannot secure the necessary capital to de- velop what he has, And what irony may not fate have in store! Some other man may come, when he has passed on, and with a few blasts in the holes in which McGuire buried his life, see enough to send him off enthusiastic to some large city, where, with the daring boldness of new enthusiasms, he will captivate some capitalist who will send out his expert. Soon the thud of the mill may be heard. the splash of the washer and the jiggle and jar of the concentrator, and others CoOLOR AT Rven o Shggrl than he will reap the reward for which poor Pete McGuire so long and so faith- fully labored. There are other mining tragedies, too, on that old and sin-stained river. Nine miles below Mc(hiire’'s [ came to a ruined and dismantied mill that told its own story of abandcnment. Close by was thie house of the widow of Dr. William Harrison Gier, a former United States army sur- geon, who had had an exciting and va- vied career, and a dozen years before had brought his wife to this place to eat out her heart in its solitudes after h's death. He was born in Maryland, a relative of Willlam Henry Harrison, once President of our great republic; educated in Balti- more, practiced medicine ™ Washington; was drawn’across the isthmus to Califor- nia in 1849; returned to Harrisburg, Pa.; enlisted.as a private during the Civil War was wounded at Antietam; received an honorable discharge: was appointed as- sistant surgeon on the Mississippi; was one of the surgeons appointed by Presi- dent Lincoln to go and minister to the wounded Confederate soldiers, who, I sup- pose, were our prisoners; remained thers until the close of the war. Then back to mining in Colorado, California, New Mexico, discovering and selliag mines, making speedy fortunes and losing them, only to make them again. An unfortunate deal In Colorado broke him up in bust- ness and heaith and he never seemed to recuperate. His attempts on the Colo- rado never succeeded, though he left be- hind him fifty-six claims of gold and cop- per-bearing rock, giuing assays from 3§ to $1600 a ton. I forgot to say tnat among his othetr adventures he found time to go down with Walker, “the man of destiny,” to Nicaragua. That shows his temper and spirit, whatever we may think of the morality of the affair, for They rode—each man an Ishmaelite, They did not question, did not care To know the right or wrong. Where is the man who reads these lines who will g0 to Mrs. Gier and undertake to work the claims—if they are found worthy?. When her husbdnd died she was alone. For three days she was with- out food. The stock was exhausted. She had a pet hen, named Mollie. In her dis tress and loneliness she talked to the hen as to a human: “Mollie, I've fed you flour every day uatil I have none left for my- self. You ought tg lay.me an egg!" Threa days afterward Mollle did. her duty and after that dropped a new egg almost every day A The Colorado River GoM and Copper Company was incorporated July 1, 1901, under the laws of Arizona, to work some of Mrs. Gler's claims. The expert reports that they contain in all about 150 acres, constituting a very rich mineral beit. The ore is of carbonat¢, azurite and mala- chite, character, with red and black oxides_and also rung well in gold. While Dr. Gier wis lying upon his sick bed his house burned down, with his large and varied library, mainly of min- ing, geological and theosophical works, “He was a great student,” sald his wife. Higher up the river, before I reached the Chemehuevis, I found a mill in oper- ation. It belongs to Thomas Dren- nen and his associates, and is about sixty-eight miles below Needles. The gold mill is of the Huntington type, equal in capacity to an ordinary five stamps. In the upper hopper the vre ts ground into pieces of about three-quarters of an inch, which then fall into the Dodge crusher, where three pairs of rollers crush it to powder. It is washed, out through a forty-mesh screen upon two large copper plates (four feet by six feet) covered with quicksilver, which takes up all the free gold. It is then passed on to the concen- trator, where the rest of the valuable metal is arrested, while the soft pulp is washed away to add to the sand and silt of the already overcharged river. A few miles farther down are other camps, more or less prosperous, the chief of which is the Empire Company’s mine. A new house has just been bulit for the superintendent on a straight and beauti- ful stretch of the river, and which speaks of evident prosperity. At Parker while photographing the Mo- haves a prospector passed with his well- laden and sleek burro. He was going to Ehrenberg overland. I met him there later, and what a God-forsaken hole it was! God pity the poor wretch that ever must stay at Ehrenberg. Its founder was a Dutchman, who was killed at Dos Palmos in 1863 by a Frenchman with whom he had some dispute. There seems to have been a curse on the place ever since. It was ralning bard before I reached there and the rain contiued throughout the day and night. In my next letter I will tell more of it, but now 1 want to conclude this letter with a brief reference to the great' interest now aroused at Picacho. Sixty or seventy miles from Yuma, the camp gets its name from two immense rocky peaks (Spanish Picacho), which according to the angle and distance from which you see them can be twisted into almost anything. At one place I recorded that “they appear like a vast cathedral, with nave, baptistry and spires, dominating the whole land- scape as St. Paul's dominates London, or the Duomo Milan.” Here there was scur- ry and bustle on'every hand. The nolse of the ax and hammer rang from the rocks over the gently flowing river. The California King Gold Mining Company, with such old miners as United States Senator J. P. Jones of Nevada and 8. W. Dorsey, are its moving spirits. Rallway, mills, shops, reduction works. stores, of- fices are all going up speedily. A large force is already at work, and much is ex- pected when everything is in proper work- ing order. Thus the old camp becomes new again—new life may extract more than the old workers ever dreamed of, and the next few years may show this as another of the wonderful mining proposi- tions of the West. (Continued next Sunday.)