By R. B. Townshend
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Additional info for A Tenderfoot in Colorado (Timberline Book)
Just now he's by way of being poor. He's a pure man: he must have had a thousand chances to enrich himself when he was Governor of Colorado in the days when the mines were booming, but he didn't use 'em. What he did do was this: as a pioneer he obtained a fine Spanish grant of a block of land down in the San Luis Park; it's called the Sangre de Cristo grant. I guess there's a million acres in it: it's huge. But just now it don't bring in nothing; it's undeveloped; it's away back of beyond. Some day when we get railways and telegraph lines and white folks to settle up that part of the country, it'll be worth millions, but that day ain't yet.
Really not? Lord, but that was a close call! " His apologies were loud and profuse. He passed his hands over my breast to make sure I was not wounded, while thought after thought raced through my whirling brain. Even as he passed those examining hands of his over my breast, I reflected that underneath were three hundred dollars, in my belt. I knew nothing of this Mr. Crocker, a mere chance acquaintance picked up on the cars. Suppose he were a thief, and after the dollars! How easily he could have taken them if I had been killed.
Now, for the first time, the attempt is being made. That grand explorer, Major Powell, despite his having only one arm-he lost his right arm in the war-has dared it with his brave companions, and to-day they are trying to navigate that wild water in craft specially constructed for the purpose. May God give them success! But I have my fears: more than two months have now elapsed since the party disappeared into the chasm, and no word of their fate has ever reached the outer world. The torrent may have swallowed them up; the Indians may have destroyed them; their boats may have been wrecked with the loss of all their provisions, and they may consequently have been starved to death; we know nothing.