monarchs in royal vestments robed. Still others are seen, white and
shadowy, stretching away down into Colorado, peak beyond peak, ridge
beyond ridge, until lost in the impenetrable distance.

As I lean on my bicycle on this mountain-top, drinking in the glorious
scene, and inhaling the ozone-laden air, looking through the loop-holes
of recent experiences in crossing the great wonderland to the west; its
strange intermingling of forest-clad hills and grassy valleys; its barren,
rocky mountains and dreary, desolate plains; its vast, snowy solitudes
and its sunny, sylvan nooks; the no less strange intermingling of people;
the wandering red-skin with his pathetic history; the feverishly hopeful
prospector, toiling and searching for precious metals locked in the
eternal hills; and the wild and free cow-boy who, mounted on his wiry
bronco, roams these plains and mountains, free as the Arab of the desert -
I heave a sigh as I realize that no tongue or pen of mine can hope to do
the subject justice.

My road is now over Cheyenne Pass, and from this point is mostly down-grade
to Cheyenne. Soon I come to a naturally smooth granite surface which
extends for twelve miles, where I have to keep the brake set most of the
distance, and the constant friction heats the brake-spoon and scorches
the rubber tire black. To-night I reach Cheyenne, where I find a bicycle
club of twenty members, and where the fame of my journey from San Francisco
draws such a crowd on the corner where I alight, that a blue-coated
guardian of the city's sidewalks requests me to saunter on over to the
hotel. Do I. Yes, I saunter over. The Cheyenne "cops" are bold, bad men
to trifle with. They have to be "bold, bad men to trifle with," or the
wild, wicked cow-boys would come in and "paint the city red " altogether
too frequently. It is the morning of June 4th as I bid farewell to the
"Magic City," and, turning my back to the mountains, ride away over very