per pound, and
other staples in proportion, and the Indian volunteers promised a too
speedy ending of such a profitable warfare.

Thus eventfully has passed the life of Judge Bradford. During his
threescore-and-five years he has moved almost across a continent, never
content unless he was on the frontier. Long may he live to ride in his
light coverless wagon in the smile of bright Colorado sunshine, honored
by all who know him, and affording his friends the enjoyment of his rare
good presence!

[Illustration: OLD ADOBE FORT.]

Thirty years ago this whole Rocky-Mountain region, now appropriated by
an enterprising and progressive people, contained, besides the native
Indians and the Mexicans in the south, only a few trappers and frontier
traders, most of them in the employ of the American Fur Company. These
were the fearless and intrepid pioneers who so far from fleeing danger
seemed rather to court it. Accounts of their adventures--now a struggle
with a wounded bear, again the threatened perils of starvation when lost
in some mountain-fastness--have long simultaneously terrified and
fascinated both young and old. We all have pictured their dress--the
coat or cloak, often an odd combination of several varieties of skins
pieced together, with fur side in; breeches sometimes of the same
material, but oftener of coarse duck or corduroy; and the slouched hat,
under whose broad brim whatever of the face that was not concealed by a
shaggy, unkempt beard shone out red from exposure to sun and weather.
The American Fur Company had dotted the country with forts, which served
the double purpose of storehouses for the valuables collected and of
places where the employes could barricade themselves against the
too-often troublesome savages. For such a purpose, though not actually
by the Fur Company, was built the old adobe fort the ruins of which are
still to be seen on the banks of the Arkansas at Pueblo. How old it may
have been no one seems to know, but certain it is that for long years,
and in the earliest times, it was a favorite rendezvous. Here was
always to be found a jolly good party to pass away the long winter
evenings with song and story. Here Kit Carson often stopped to rest from
his many perilous expeditions, enjoying, together with Fremont and other
noted Rocky-Mountain explorers, the hospitalities of the old fort. Many
times were its soft walls indented by the arrows of besieging Indians,
but its bloodiest tragedy w