"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." "When are you going to tell us the story of the burning of the Road House?" interrupted Ham. "Well," replied Mr. Allen, "if I don't succeed in getting Dad to tell it to you himself, I'll tell it when we stop on top of that hogsback to rest," pointing to a great, round hill in the canyon. "Do you think Dad will really tell us any of his stories?" queried Willis. "My father used to know him, and he has stopped at this very place. I'm sure he made many trips to Cripple Creek in those old stages." Turning to Mr. Allen, he continued, "Wouldn't father think it awfully strange if he knew I was tramping over the very road he used to travel so often?" Mr. Allen and Willis dropped to the rear of the line, and Willis went on: "I've been thinking I'd ask Daddy Wright if he remembered my father, and he might know where the mine is; and O, I'd so like to see it. I never want to be a miner, but I'd just like to know all about mines, so I could understand father better."