THE PLAINS--THE MOUNTAINS.
DENVER, June 15, 1859.
I know far greater contrasts than that between the region which stretches hundreds of miles eastward from this spot toward the Missouri, and is known as The Plains, and that which overlooks us on the west, and, alike by its abrupt and sharp-ridged foot-hills seeming just at hand, and its glittering peaks of snow in the blue distance, vindicates its current designation, The Mountains. Let me elucidate:
The plains are nearly destitute of human inhabitants. Aside from the buffalo-range--which has been steadily narrowing ever since Daniel Boone made his home in Kentucky, and is now hardly two hundred miles wide --it affords little sustenance and less shelter to man. The antelope are seldom seen in herds--three is the highest number I observed together, while one, or at most two, is a more common spectacle. One to each mile square would be a large estimate for all that exist on the plains. Elk are scarcely seen at all, even where they have hardly ever been hunted or scared. Of deer, there are none, or next to none. For the plains are the favorite haunt of beasts and birds of prey--of the ravenous and fearless gray-wolf, of the cayote, the raven, and the hawk--the first hanging on the flanks of