Adventures in Time Book II The Adventures Continue

ADVENTURES
IN TIME

Book II

The American West

Jack Dallas

Contents


Chapter 1. The Adventures Continue
Chapter 2. Little Bighorn
Chapter 3. Colorado
Chapter 4. Chief Joseph
Chapter 5. William H. Bonney
Chapter 6. Wyatt Earp

Selected Pictures

George Armstrong Custer
General Nelson Miles
General Oliver Howard
Chief Joseph

Chapter 7. Bat Masterson
Chapter 8. Buffalo Bill Cody
Chapter 9. Leadville
Chapter 10. Denver
Chapter 11. The Rough Riders
Chapter 12. Final Chapter

Acknowledgements & Credits


Chapter 1

Book II


The Adventures Continue


Dallas Texas
2005

White Rock Creek Park sits like an enclave in the quiet Lake Highlands neighborhood of North Central Dallas, just a short walk if one is so inclined from White Rock Lake to the south. From the rise just across the meadow from Flagpole Hill near the pavilion, one can see the city skyline, or at least the tops of the buildings can be seen poking up above the trees on the other side of the road.

The little park is a pleasant place, not usually very crowded and were it not for the traffic on Northwest Highway which borders it to the south it would be quite serene. The plush green landscape always reminds me of the rolling hills of Western Virginia. I often lose myself in thoughts and memories of a different time and a different place.

Summer nights and holidays often find hundreds of people from the surrounding neighborhoods sitting on the ground, or in lawn chairs they have brought with them, spread out across the park, listening to the sounds of the Dallas Symphony Orchestra. Whether it is a Souza march or The 1812 Overture, music that lifts the spirit and the very soul wafts across the countryside to be enjoyed by all. These are always memorable events.

On this particular Saturday however, I brought my own entertainment. I am watching a six year old boy and an eight year old girl roll down the hill. Cami, my granddaughter is getting it right but her little brother Neil keeps tacking to the left, coming to a stop, and has to begin again. She is trying to show him how to stay on course and roll all the way to the bottom. Both are dizzy after finally completing the trip and have to sit still a few minutes before they can walk straight. Then it’s back up the hill to do it all over again.

It’s late November and there is a chill in the air. The leaves have turned colors, as much as they will that is, but not like in other parts of the country. We don’t have the bright explosion of colors that do climes farther north and east, the cacophony of beauty that blesses the senses in New England and all along the east coast. Still, it is not altogether unpleasant in Dallas this time of year. It can often be very warm some days, and on alternate days, quite cool. Usually it is sweater weather and heavy coats are not required.

The two kids grow weary of their play and come to sit beside me on the hill. I nestle one under each arm. Together we watch my two older grand-girls coming toward us from Flagpole Hill. Marcy, now seventeen, has chosen to give up her teenage girl pursuits for an afternoon to humor her grandfather for this munchkin day at the park. Cheyenne, my twelve year old Poet, is walking alongside her. They plop down in front of us and we form a tight little circle there on the grass on the side of the hill.

“What are we going to do now Grandpa?” Marcy asked me.

“Are you bored already?” I said. “We’ve only been here an hour.”

“There just isn’t anything to do,” she said.

“Grandpa is going to tell us a story,” Neil said loudly.

“I am?”

“Yes, you promised,” he said, just as loudly.

“I did?”

“You haven’t told us a story in a long time Grandpa,” Cheyenne said.

“No you haven’t,” Cami added. “Remember you told us about when you were a boy, and you worked for a newspaper, and you met the president and all. Tell us another story about that stuff.”

“Yeah, Grandpa,” Marcy said. “I like the stories you tell about the Civil War. You know, you were a reporter going around interviewing famous people. You were going to tell us what happened to you after the war was over, but you never did.”

“No you never did,” Neil shouted.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “I haven’t told you guys a story in quite a while. Okay, I guess it’s time to pick up where we left off. Did I mention that I left Washington?”

“Yes, you said you went to Colorado,” Marcy reminded me.

“So I did. Okay, then I left Washington and went to Colorado. First I must tell you a little something about Colorado in those days. Colorado was not a state yet, it was a rough and wooly place.”

“What’s wooly mean?” Neil said.

“It means rough,” I answered.

“But you already said rough.”

“Well, I meant wild, it means wild. Colorado was a rough and wild place. You understand?”

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding his head.

I continued. Denver became a town in 1858, after gold was discovered near where the South Platte River and Cherry Creek run together. The town was named after the Governor of The Kansas territory at the time, a man named James W. Denver. I’m not sure why. People started pouring into Colorado from all over the country looking to get rich quick by panning for gold. I knew it was a place where things were happening, so I decided it was time for me to go to.

I left Washington about a year after the war was over. I packed up everything I owned in the world and bought a ticket on the Union Pacific Railroad for Omaha Nebraska. From Omaha I rode a Stagecoach all the way into the Colorado Territory and all the way to Denver.

When I arrived in 1866, there were only a few thousand people in Denver but by 1890 it had grown to over a hundred thousand. It was a great place to live and a great place to be. I fell in love with Colorado and it quickly became the home of my heart. I have to tell you guys, I had never seen anything like Colorado. The mountains seemed to reach all the way to heaven and there was snow on them almost all the time, even in summer.

“Have I ever been to Colo..rah..do, Grandpa?”

“No Neil, you’ve never been there. Your older brother Jeff was born in Colorado, and Marcy has been there on a trip, and Cheyenne is named after Cheyenne Canyon, but none of you three has ever been there yet. You will one day. I plan to take you all there one day.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I’d like to go there. Is it very far there?”

“Not too far,” I answered, “maybe eight hundred miles or so from Dallas to Denver.”

“That’s a long way,” Cami said.

“Get back to the story Grandpa,” Cheyenne insisted.

“Okay, okay, let me think. Where do we begin? How about in 1876? Yes, 1876 is a good place to start. We’ll get there in time for statehood.”