We afterwards learned from United States officers that our expedition had been a little imprudent. The Sioux Indians, though not absolutely on the war-path, were in an uncomfortable state of ferment. The news of the Modoc massacre had spread among the tribes in the same mysterious manner that tidings spread through the bazaars of India, and there was a general feeling of uneasiness. At no time would it be pleasant, as we knew from our hunter friends, to meet Indians on the plain; at any rate they would try to steal, a game at which they were very successful, especially when the booty consisted of horses or cattle belonging to white men. All’s well that ends well. We saw no Sioux, our scalps were tight upon our heads, and there is a certain tinge of pleasure in the idea of having incurred an even remotely possible danger! April 28th.—Could there be a more delightful change after the dreary monotony of the desert than to lift one’s eyes on waking to the radiant snows of the Rocky Mountains? We were hardly prepared to find Denver City so pleasant a place, and, above all, so quiet and orderly; for in the Eastern States we had been led to believe that we should find one of those wild, lawless settlements of the West—models from which Bret Harte painted “The Luck of Roaring Camp” and other masterpieces, in which the six-shooter makes such a show. Indeed, in a New York paper I read an advertisement which ran as follows: “An hotel with bullet-proof walls has recently been erected at Denver City, so that a gentleman can sit and listen to the shooting going on in the next room without being incommoded by any feeling of danger.” The East was in those days very hard upon the West, and, as I thought, very unjustly; for there were vigilance committees everywhere, and Judge Lynch—an obvious necessity in wild young communities—made short work of sweeping out ruffians who misbehaved themselves. Indeed, the West might boast that whereas the Tombs, the famous prison at New York, was full of murderers, who might or might not be punished as politics might dictate, in Denver or Virginia City justice marched with no lame or uncertain foot. We found a capital hotel, kept by one Charpiot, a Frenchman; gifted with the genius of his race for cooking and serving things nicely, he was known to fame as the Delmonico of the West; we had not been fed so well since we left New York. What a pretty little town it was! Now I suppose it has grown out of all recollection, but at the time of which I am writing (1873) it had but twelve thousand inhabitants. However much it may have spread it must still have its glorious view of the Rockies, with the famous Pike’s Peak as the chief feature. The air was so pure and clear that though the great chain was fifteen miles off the mountains seemed quite close, as though a man might walk there under the hour.