Carson, Bridger, and I remained at Russel's gulch about three weeks, and we visited many claims and heard the shouts of the successful and the groans of those who failed, and we all three decided that we had got enough of mining by looking on without trying our hand at it, so we left the mining camp and pulled out for Denver, and from Russel's gulch to the foot of the mountain. We were never out of sight of teams of every description, and nearly every person we met asked us how far it was to Russel's gulch. We were about ten miles on the trail towards Denver when a man asked us this question, and Jim Bridger answered that if we were anywhere else in the United States it would be ten miles to Russel's gulch, but by that trail he reckoned it was about fifty. The man said, "Doesn't the road get any better?" Jim said, "I don't call this path a road, but if you do I will tell you that it gets worse all the way up." When we reached the foot of the mountains at the crossing at Clear creek, we found more campers there than when we had left three weeks before. As we were riding along, Bridger said, "Where, do you suppose all these people came from?" Kit Carson answered, "Oh, they have come from all over the east. This excitement has spread like wild fire all over the country." Up to this time we had seen but very few families in the crowds of gold seekers, but when we got to Denver on our return from the mines, we saw that a great many of the emigrants had their whole families with them, and it was surprising to see the number of cabins that had been built in so short a time, and we saw a number of teams hauling logs from the foot of the mountains to build more cabins, and there had been several little buildings built and furnished with groceries and dry goods since we had left there. The evening we got to Denver we went a little ways up the Platte river to find a place to camp, and whom should we meet but our old friend Jim Beckwith. As Carson shook his hand, he said, "Why, Beckwith, I thought you had more sense than to be caught in a scrape like this." Beckwith laughed and answered, "Well, Kit, I see I am not the only durned fool in the country. You seem to be caught in the same scrape with me," and for the next half hour it was amusing to hear the jokes these three old friends tossed at each other, for, of course, Bridger joined in. After they had their fun with each other, Carson asked Beckwith what he was doing there. Beckwith answered, "I have staked off a claim here, Kit. It is not a claim either. It is a farm," and he pointed to a little bunch of timber a short distance from our camp. "I intended to build a cabin in that grove of timber," which he afterwards did, and he lived there about thirty years and died there about fourteen years ago as I was informed a year ago, when I was in Denver for the first time since Carson, Bridger and I camped on his claim.